


Walk the Line

by melo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Steve Rogers, Bullying, Creepy, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homophobic Language, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve, Vampires, non-con/dub-con elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something not quite right about the way that Steve's neighbour lives. There's something not quite right, and it's in Steve's nature to make wrongs right. </p><p>Too bad it's not in Bucky's nature.</p><p>Inspired by Let Me In (2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently read [Red (White & Blue)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4450562) by [counteragent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/pseuds/counteragent) as well as [The Curse That Falls on Young Lovers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4469204) by [Radis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Radis/pseuds/Radis), both of which are FANTASTIC reads that I highly recommend. They helped put me in a vampire kick and brought me out of a huge writing slump. "The Curse That Falls on Young Lovers" is inspired by Let the Right One In (2008) which is the progenitor of Let Me In (2010), and while I haven't seen Let the Right One In (2008), I can say that beyond the initial setup, this fic will depart from the movie plot of Let Me In (2010), so you need not be familiar with either movies.
> 
> The title is from Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line."
> 
> NOTE: Additional tags will be added as the story grows, and the rating may go up.

Bucky’s new neighbours move in while he’s asleep. He only knows he has new neighbours because he remembers hearing the old ones packing late into the night, the sounds of boxes sliding across hardwood and packing tape being drawn taut an auditory puzzle to occupy his idle mind.

He’d spent weeks visualizing the mirrored layout of the neighbouring unit, old Mrs. Neighbour sorting belongings into piles for keeping or tossing, and old Mr. Neighbour stacking sealed cardboard boxes in the living room even as he complained loudly of his aching back. Bucky had pictured the careful cataloguing of belongings and matched the scritch of a felt-tipped marker to the action of labeling boxes: _kitchen-dishes, study-books, bedroom-clothes_.

Awake now, Bucky hears the process in reverse. Packing tape is sliced open, cardboard flaps wrenched apart, linens stuffed haphazardly into closets, and a minimum of dishes stowed in the kitchen cabinets. Bucky hears the soft shushing of a woman’s voice and the dutiful agreement of a boy’s -- presumably a mother and her son. Mother Neighbour cautions Junior of thin walls and the importance of first impressions. Junior urges his mother to turn in for the night, to leave the unpacking to him. She has long work hours at the hospital the next day.

Bucky doesn’t actually enjoy eavesdropping. He might derive some entertainment from puzzling out actions from their sounds, but overhearing the conversations of his neighbours is more mind numbing than listening to paint dry, so he draws back the blackout curtains of his living room and unlatches the window. He slips outside, dropping soundlessly onto the yellowing grass beneath the window. The wind outside supplants the conversation of his new neighbours, a pleasant white noise that doesn’t run up the bills Alex so meticulously manages.

Bucky sits down in one of the two swings of the tiny playground centered in the housing complex’s courtyard. He forgot to put on boots again and Alex is always upset when Bucky tracks dirt back into the house, but what’s done is done. Bucky closes his eyes and digs his toes into the dust. He pretends it’s sand on a sunny beach.

It’s some time later when the slam of the dumpster lid startles Bucky to his feet. The autumn air is sharp in Bucky’s throat, the dim streetlights balls of orange fire in his sharp vision. A short boy is caught in Bucky’s line of sight, both hands raised with empty palms in apology or defense.

“Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-- the lid was just a lot heavier than I expected,” the boy whispers loudly, wanting his voice to carry across the courtyard without disturbing the other residents who were undoubtedly sleeping in their beds at this ungodly hour.

Bucky takes in the apologetic twist of the boy’s thin lips, the creased brows above wide eyes, the pale hair tucked beneath a worn knit hat. The boy looks laughably small in his oversized coat. Bucky wonders how he managed to get the dumpster opened in the first place.

“It’s all right,” Bucky says -- or tries to say. His voice cracks on the first syllable and hisses into nothing on the rest, rusty from disuse. “It’s all right,” Bucky repeats, and is satisfied when the words seem to carry to the boy’s ears.

The boy stares at Bucky for a moment longer before nodding. Then he stands for a few seconds looking uncertain before he seems to come to some sort of decision. The boy then strides purposefully across the courtyard, closing the distance to stop right in front of Bucky. The top of the boy’s head isn’t even level with Bucky’s chin, but the boy looks dead straight into Bucky’s eyes, extends a hand and says, almost aggressively, “My name’s Steve Rogers. What’s yours?”

Bemused, Bucky looks down at Steve’s outstretched hand and it takes a moment for him to realize that Steve wants to shake his hand. To be fair, Steve’s forceful movements made it look more like a botched punch, so Bucky can’t be faulted for his confusion. Bucky takes Steve’s hand with unnecessary trepidation, noting the twitch of Steve’s fingers as Steve tenses in surprise before completing the shake with an awkward jerk. It’s almost like Steve’s never shaken hands before. Not that Bucky is surprised. Steve looks like he can’t be more than thirteen years old.

“I’m… Bucky,” Bucky answers, settling on the more youthful of his names. It’s his preferred name anyway.

With the handshake completed, Steve drops Bucky’s hand like Bucky’s touch burns, and Bucky would take offense if not for the obvious flush in Steve’s cheeks. “Hi, Bucky,” Steve says awkwardly, but he doesn’t comment on the unusual name, so that’s a plus.

“Hi,” Bucky says.

Steve’s bravado seems to fluctuate. “I just moved here,” Steve says. “Do you live here? I mean, you probably do since you’re in the courtyard and all, but I don’t want to assume. I uh-- I’m starting at the high school on Monday, so we’re probably going to see each other, maybe even share some classes? I’m in grade nine--”

“I don’t go to the high school,” Bucky says, surprised that Steve’s a high schooler.

“Oh, of course. Sorry. I just assumed you were around my age--”

“No, I-- I’m homeschooled,” Bucky lies.

“Oh.” Steve looks disappointed, but the expression is quickly covered with a cautious smile. “That’s cool. So, you do live here?”

“Yeah.” Bucky hesitates. “I live in number eight.”

Steve’s smile grows. “I’m in number ten. We’re neighbours! Like directly, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Bucky repeats, letting the corners of his lips curl up with the encouragement of Steve’s warming demeanour.

“That’s great,” Steve says. “I was kinda stressed, y’know? November’s a weird time to start at a new school and I was worried about meeting new people, but now I’ve met you. Even if we won’t be sharing classes, it’s nice.”

Bucky nods agreeably. He’s seen enough teen dramas on the television. High school seems tumultuous.

Steve opens his mouth to say something else, but the words don’t come. The eyes which had mostly been fixed to Bucky’s face have finally darted low enough to take in Bucky’s unshod feet, and the crease reforms between Steve’s eyebrows. “Your feet…”  

“It’s late,” Bucky says, which is true. “I’m heading in. You should get home too.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees slowly, frowning but letting Bucky avoid Steve’s unspoken question.

“It’s nice meeting you, Steve,” Bucky says, backing slowly towards the walkway that leads around to the front of the complex. He doesn’t want Steve to watch him clamber through a window. “Goodnight.”

“Yeah. Goodnight,” Steve echoes, watching Bucky until Bucky rounds the corner.

Fortunately, Steve doesn’t follow and Bucky is able to scale the side of the end unit unobserved. Bucky remains low on the roof until Steve finally crosses the threshold of number ten, and only lets himself slip home through the window after several more minutes have passed.

There are hours yet before dawn, but the unexpected socializing has tired Bucky and he cannot even bring himself to clean his dirty footprints off the flooring. He’ll deal with it later. Anyway, Alex will not be back for another week, so Bucky just closes the blackout curtains and trudges into the bathroom. He lays down in the tub and pulls the dense pile of thick quilts snug over his head. Like this he cannot hear beyond his own soft breaths, but he wonders if Steve is asleep yet. He wonders if Steve is still happy to have met him.       

 

***

 

School goes about how Steve expects it to. Most of his peers take one look at his scrawny body wrapped in his bargain-bin clothes and dismiss him from their awareness. Those of his peers who spare him a second glance barely hide their mocking laughter as they elbow each other and exchange meaningful looks that Steve knows all too well. _This one. This runt._

As usual his teachers begin with reserved but somewhat optimistic expectations for him. He looks bookish in his sweater and collared shirt, and timid with his hunched shoulders and small stature, but his teachers soon become wary of his participation and slowly stop choosing his raised hand. They're unused to hearing opposing opinions voiced with conviction and supporting facts. Steve doesn't mean to sound like a defiant know-it-all but he can't smoother the desire to speak up when the aged history teacher glosses over atrocities, or when the math teacher makes a spectacle of a student who failed a test. It cuts him from the herd; makes him easy pickings for the bullies who quickly make themselves known.

Hodge is beefy and his overbearing presence is padded with the additional bulk of his friends and the cloud of his overapplied Axe. The mixed scent of sweat and cloying deodorant is almost enough to knock Steve down, and Hodge finishes the job with a couple gut punches behind the school after the last bell on Wednesday. Hodge walks off with his friends. They laugh and pat each other on the shoulders. Steve limps his way home clutching his backpack by its only unbroken strap.

Fortunately, there's a lot of work for Steve to catch up with, so he's kept busy in the evenings while his mother pulls double shift after double shift. There's not much time to feel sorry for himself between reading his textbooks and unpacking more boxes, but somehow Steve's thoughts constantly wander back to somber blue eyes veiled behind ink-dark hair.

Though Steve peeks out the window every night before bed, he doesn't see Bucky again until late Friday night. Bucky is a dark smudge in the shadows of the playground, but his pale feet give him away, ghostly as they kick lazily beneath the swings.

Steve tells himself he's not excited to see Bucky again, but he almost trips over the threshold as he hurriedly pulls on his coat and locks the door of the unit behind him. It doesn't occur to Steve that Bucky might want to be alone until Steve is already at the edge of the playground, but the timid smile Bucky gives Steve puts any worries to rest.

"Hi, Steve."

"Hi, Bucky. How are you?" Steve genuinely wants to know, but he winces at how inane he sounds.

"I'm fine."

"That's good. Do you, uh, mind if I sit here?" Steve gestures at the unoccupied swing.

Bucky shrugs. "It's a free country, ain't it?"

"Right."

They sit together in silence for a while, Steve's anxiety gradually fading as he realizes Bucky is perfectly content with quiet company. For the first time in days, Steve lets his posture melt, his muscles unknotting as tension seeps out and evaporates with the condensation of his breath. It’s odd to be so comfortable in the presence of a near-stranger, but that’s how Steve feels. He takes deep inhales of the chill autumn air without feeling its usual bite at his asthmatic lungs. He matches the sway of his swing to Bucky’s, stretching legs that were curled for too long during his studies.

Steve is a little surprised when Bucky clears his throat to speak. “How’s… how’s school?”

“It’s all right,” Steve answers. “Just a little more work than I’m used to since I’m starting late, that’s all.”

“Why’s that? I mean, why’d you start late? Or move here.”

Steve huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “If it’s not obvious, I’m not exactly in the best of health.”

Bucky digs his toes into the ground, bringing his swing to a halt. “You-- you dying or something?"

“No!”

“That’s good,” Bucky ducks his head a little. His longish hair swings down, but not enough to obscure his tiny grin.

“Yeah. I’ll say.” Steve feels an answering grin break across his face. “It’s just that I get sick easy. I’m asthmatic to boot, and you can imagine the kind of bills that piled up between medication and living costs back in Brooklyn, so my ma and I moved out somewhere quieter-- and cheaper. Hopefully all this fresh air’ll do me some good too, right?”

“It is pretty quiet here. Especially at night. It’s nice, I guess. I’m sorry you had to move for those reasons, but I-- sometimes it’s a bit too quiet, so I can’t say I’m all that sorry about you moving here,” Bucky admits shyly.

“There aren’t any other kids in this complex, are there,” Steve remarks. “It seems a bit lonely getting homeschooled. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Me neither. It’s just me and my ma. How about for you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Bucky bites his lip, looking almost nervous before answering, “My dad. Just me and my-- my dad.”

Steve nods amiably. “What’s it like getting homeschooled? I’m curious. If it weren’t for my ma’s profession and her crazy hours, she’d probably homeschool me to keep me from catching so many bugs. It’s not like she wants to keep me in a bubble, but she’s always going on about schools being breeding grounds for disease. She won’t let me out of the house without a little bottle of hand sanitizer, not that I can blame her with my immune system.”

“Yeah, I can see the glass bones and paper skin you got to go with that shoddy immune system,” Bucky teases, the corners of his eyes crinkling impishly as he darts out a finger to poke Steve lightly in the side.

Steve folds in half with surprise, sending his swing into a sudden spin that twists the chains above his head. Steve’s heart rate picks up, but not for the usual reasons. He’s used to prickling under such comments from other kids, but this kind of teasing is-- different.

“Ha ha,” Steve says, rolling his eyes and hoping the warmth in his face isn’t manifesting as a blush. He lets his swing unwind, his legs thrown out by the centrifugal force. Bucky’s toothy grin flashes in and out of sight as Steve twirls back around, transforming his face more than the motion blur of Steve’s vision.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Steve reminds Bucky once his swing is fully unwound.

Bucky’s grin dims. “Well, um, there’s nothing really interesting about it. I just-- I take some online courses.”

“So how old are you?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow in mild challenge. “How old do you think I am?”

“That ain’t fair. I told you how old I was.”

“No you didn’t. You told me what grade you’re in.”

“Close enough. You ought to tell me something back.”

“That was your choice to share info. I ain’t obligated to share nothin’.”

“Yeah, but--” Steve splutters. “You’re making me out be some kinda interrogator. I just wanna know you, is all.”

“Maybe I just like makin’ you squirm.” Bucky throws Steve a mischievous smirk and something in Steve’s gut tightens. Hodge must’ve punched him harder than Steve had thought.

“Are you fifteen?” Steve asks mulishly. “Sixteen? Seventeen--” Steve gets all the way up to twenty-three with little more than a prim crossing of Bucky’s legs as Bucky exaggerates the motions of settling in for a long wait. “Fine! Don’t tell me, you jerk. I might be younger than you, but I’m old enough to be secure in the knowledge that I can count to a hundred without needing to prove it, and to know that you can’t be more than twenty-five. Though you’re probably… 17 since you’re homeschooled, not in college.”  

Bucky nods along to Steve’s reasoning, then pouts sympathetically. “You can only count to a hundred?”

“Oh my God,” Steve groans. “No, I got it. You’re thirteen.”

“What! No, _you’re_ thirteen!”

Steve never knew conversation with someone near his age could be so easy, but with Bucky it is. If asked, Steve wouldn’t be able to summarize the majority of what they chatted about, but hours slip by unnoticed, Steve drunk on the late hour, or his sleeplessness, or Bucky’s little bitten-back smiles, lips left puffy and chapped from the abuse.

Steve would happily spend the rest of his weekend just so, on the swings in the cold, fingers as frozen as Bucky’s bare toes must be, but the peaceful bubble of the courtyard is pierced by the slam of a car door.

Bucky bolts up from the seat of his swing with such speed and such silence that Steve nearly flips backwards out of his own seat.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve laughs, “those lying pants of yours finally heating up?”

“I-- I oughta go,” Bucky says absent mindedly, staring somewhere over Steve’s shoulder.

Steve cranes his neck around to see what Bucky’s looking at. A man stands by the side of the end unit, features obscured by the high collar of a great coat and hands tucked into its pockets. The man just stands there, but Bucky drifts haltingly towards him, sparing a moment to toss Steve a hasty goodnight before loping the rest of the way, filled with a sudden grace and energy Steve hadn’t even realized Bucky had been missing. Steve watches as Bucky comes to a stop before the man, watches as Bucky leans forward before rocking back on his heels as if dizzy, watches as the man places a firm hand at the small of Bucky’s back to steer him around the corner.

Steve leaps to his feet as they disappear out of view. Steve jogs out of the courtyard, only slowing when he rounds the corner and sees that Bucky and the man are making a beeline for unit number eight. Steve barely preserves a socially acceptable distance behind them and dithers uselessly outside his own front door as he watches the man usher Bucky over the threshold of number eight. The man disappears into the dark unit after Bucky, not turning to acknowledge the neighbour kid gawking openly at their backs. The door clicks firmly shut and Steve hears a bolt slide into place. Steve strains his ears but hears nothing else, and after another moment he pushes his house key into the lock of his own front door.

Steve paces the length of his living room the rest of that night, all the tension he’d exhaled returned. His breath is short even after the dawn rays stretch through the window to warm the air. Steve feels--

Angry.

He doesn’t know why.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains a few homophobic slurs.

Bucky trembles where he stands, back to the door and the man bolting it shut. Bucky’s senses are alive as they haven’t been in days. He hears the feeble groan of the heater and the buzz of electricity in the walls. He sees the distinct shapes of the scarce furniture crouched in the unlit rooms. He can taste the heat of the living body near him; smells the bright copper tang enclosed within the cooler on the kitchen counter. He feels the last reserves of his energy, his self-control, slipping in the rise of the fine hairs along his skin and in the swollen wetness of his gums.

“You’re late,” Bucky grumbles, the sound of the R rolling into a growl.

Bucky hears Alex pause in the motion of removing his leather gloves. Bucky swallows thickly and leans into the nearest wall. Lets his forehead knock against the drywall, his hair a poor curtain across his face.

Alex’s body is a line of heat along Bucky’s back as Alex looms over Bucky, not touching Bucky but pinning him all the same with mere presence. Alex grips Bucky’s chin with one gloved hand and turns Bucky’s head until Bucky’s right eye is pressed closed against the wall and the left is forced to meet with Alex’s cold gaze. “It couldn’t be helped,” Alex says, and Bucky nods in agreement, the movement pushing Alex’s fingers into the soft underside of his jaw.

Alex lets go.

“Have a seat,” he says, and Bucky sits down in the nearest chair, one of the two chairs tucked against the tiny kitchen table.

Alex takes his time peeling his leather gloves off his hands. He tucks them into his coat pockets and shrugs out of his great coat, taking care to fold it neatly over the back of the other kitchen chair. That done, Alex flips on the old fluorescent light above the kitchen sink. It flickers weakly and the interior light of the fridge is blinding in comparison when Alex opens the fridge to retrieve a fresh carton of milk. Alex opens the carton to pour the milk into a glass and raises an inquiring eyebrow at Bucky. “Do you want some milk?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move from where he’s planted in the kitchen chair, palms flat on the kitchen table like they’ve been cuffed to the surface. Alex knows what Bucky wants, and a coil of shame snakes through Bucky’s gut before he habitually stamps it down.

“I see our new neighbours are settling in nicely,” Alex says once he’s seated himself across from Bucky. “I’m sure they’re lovely people, though I must say that boy seems a bit odd. Maybe I should have purchased the downtown apartment instead--”

“No. I-- I like it here,” Bucky says. “And I’ve finally got my things the way I like them, y’know. I just--” Bucky ducks his head, shoulders hunching up around his ears.

“Oh, James,” Alex sighs, reaching over to brush the hair from Bucky’s face. The caress makes Bucky shudder, makes him want to nose along Alex’s wrist, makes him want to push that crisp suit cuff back to expose the veins that have grown more pronounced with age. It makes him want to _bite_.

Bucky curls more tightly into himself and worries his bottom lip furiously instead.

“You know how busy I am,” Alex says, continuing to pet Bucky like a skittish animal. Bucky closes his eyes. “You know it’s not easy making a living for the both of us. Especially not with your… unique needs.”

“I know. I do.”

“Then be good for me. I don’t like how you’ve been tracking dirt into the unit again,” Alex says, but Bucky knows what he doesn’t say.

“I know you think I shouldn’t go out without you, but I’ve just been-- restless.”

“You’re hungry.”

Bucky snorts inelegantly. “Yeah, you could say I haven’t been myself.”

“Would you like a Snickers bar instead of some milk?” Alex asks wryly, catching Bucky off-guard. Bucky leans back in his seat while Alex cups his hands around his glass. “I know time passes differently for you. That I must change so quickly in your eyes, but I know you, James. I know what you like and what you like to do, just like I always have.”

“You just have more resources to monitor me now, that’s all,” Bucky grimaces. “I hope you’re using a computer to do it. Dunno how I feel about some intern babysitting me. Might just have to amp up the hours I languish in front of the TV. Then we’ll really test how pop culture savvy you are.”

Alex just smiles and takes another drink of milk. His jaw is more rounded now, though still strong. His face is deeply creased and there are slight furrows on the bridge of his nose from the heavy glasses he wears while working. His hair is mostly silvered, though his golden crown has faded into tawny waves made vivid by dyes Alex will never admit to using. The colour has been washed out of Alex by time, everywhere but in his eyes where the blue has darkened and cooled.

Alex sets down his empty glass with a quiet clink and an exaggerated smack of lips. Bucky looks away.

“You must be thirsty,” Alex says, pushing back from the kitchen table to approach the cooler on the counter. “Let it not be said that I don’t know how to be gracious. I packed some extra to make up for the unexpected delay, and of course only the finest quality for my James.”

Alex sets the cooler in the space between Bucky’s resting hands. He leans down until Bucky can feel Alex’s sharp grin by his ear. “Bon appetite.”

 

***

 

Steve likes to sketch. He likes art, likes that he can capture what he sees on paper, likes that the same image can evoke such different responses in different people. He likes that art can make a statement, how art can be important, but he also likes how art can be his thoughts scribbled into the margins of his notes, crumpled and smeared and devolved into inky splotches after he realizes that he’s sketched the sweep of Bucky’s hair for the seventh time that day.

Steve scratches out the absentminded rendering of Bucky’s profile, blacking out the rough outline of that sharp nose, that strong brow and soft chin. Still, somehow the darkness of the ink on his notebook only serves to remind Steve of Bucky’s penchant for black clothing and night time playground visits. Steve hasn’t seen Bucky in four nights, and it bothers him. It eats at his mind.

Like the arts, Steve enjoys History, but it’s less fascinating when cut into palatable pieces, pressed into the pages of an outdated textbook, and narrated by an outdated history teacher. Thus, Steve is the first one out the door when the bell rings to signal the end of his last class of the day. He bangs his locker door open and quickly sweeps his books into his bag, wanting to get home quickly even if his return has no effect on the approach of night. Not that Steve is eager for night to come. He just wants to get home to get his homework out of the way and to get dinner started for his ma. He’ll make spaghetti and meatballs. Does Bucky like spaghetti and meatballs?

Steve’s thoughts are interrupted by the bang of a hand against the locker door above his head. Steve’s hackles rise with the sound and with Hodge’s sneering drawl, “Rogers. You in a rush to get home to your mama or somethin’?”

“What’s it to you, where I’m goin’?” Steve asks, spinning around to stare Hodge square in the eye.

Hodge blinks and leans back for a second before resuming his attempt at intimidation. “I’m just askin,’ Rogers. No need to get your lil panties in a twist, right boys?” Hodge’s friends chuckle from where they’ve formed a sloppy semicircle around Steve’s locker.

“Well I’m not interested in talking to you,” Steve says, trying to close his locker. He can’t, of course, because Hodge’s sweaty hand is busy trying to leave a rusty palm print on the locker door.

“Hold on, I just want to see somethin,’” Hodge says, lifting his hand off the locker only to brush Steve aside. Steve stumbles away with embarrassingly little resistance. By the time Steve has steadied himself against the neighbouring lockers, Hodge has already reached into Steve’s locker to pull out his History notebook. Steve reaches to grab the notebook out of Hodge’s hands, but one of Hodge’s friends elbows Steve aside, leaving Hodge free to casually flip open the notebook. Steve locks his jaw when Hodge whistles.

“Saw you drawing in History. This your girlfriend?” Hodge holds Steve’s notebook open and shows it around to his friends like he’s reading them a picture book. It’s one of the few sketches in the notebook that Steve did not blot out. In it, Bucky is slouched on the swings, bare feet kicked playfully out, hair obscuring most of his face in a soft, wind-swept wave.

Hodge’s friends crowd in to see, laughing and nudging each other while effortlessly keeping Steve from retrieving the notebook. “She’s pretty,” one of them says. “She go here?” another asks. Then Hodge turns the page.

There’s a collective intake of breath. Tucked alongside notes about a new assignment is a detailed sketch of Bucky’s face, one that Steve still can’t regret leaving whole. Bucky’s long dark hair and cleft chin. His strong brow and hooded eyes. Pouting lips slightly parted.

Steve’s stomach turns as the silence stretches on. None of the other boys say anything, and when they do, the insult is both familiar and biting. “ _Fag_.”

As if that word were a cue, Hodge’s friends erupt into sneers and malicious laughter. “He’s a fuckin’ faggot!”

Steve’s chest heaves though Hodge and his friends have stopped pushing at him, too busy cackling together and passing Steve’s notebook around, eagerly searching for more sketches. Steve feels overheated though his hands are cold, the circulation limited in the tight curl of his fists. His face hurts with how rigidly his jaw is clenched and he thinks he can hear the sound of his teeth grinding together.

Steve wants to punch them. Wants to push them all to the floor and sock them each right in the nose. Wants to give Hodge an uppercut to the fatty underside of his jaw, make his teeth clack together; maybe make him bite his tongue or chip a tooth. But he can’t. Because he’s too weak. Because he promised his ma that she wouldn’t get any more calls from school about him picking fights. Because he knows bullies, knows how they work, how this works, how he can’t win. Steve shakes with his ugly knowledge and wishes he’d never learned it.

“Hey!” someone shouts.

The figure shouldering his way into the group of Hodge’s friends doesn’t immediately register in Steve’s awareness, fixated as he is on keeping his breathing even and his fists at his sides.

“Hey! What’s going on here?” The speaker is large, his bulk comparable to Hodge’s, and for a moment Steve thinks he’s looking at a teacher, but the speaker’s moustache has an adolescent patchiness and the bowler hat is nothing a staff member would don outside of Halloween.

“Just admiring some art. Right, guys?” Hodge explains innocently, backed by the raucous corroboration of his friends.

“You’d more likely admire your own asshole than some gallery piece, much less some student art,” the mustached teen scoffs, grabbing Steve’s notebook from Hodge’s hand as Hodge’s face twists angrily. “Now shouldn’t you be at football practice or something? I think ya still got a few brain cells left that need killing.”

Hodge’s eyes scrunch furiously and he steps up to the mustached teen until they’re chest to chest. “Now look here, Dugan--”

“Hi, Coach Phillips! Dugan and I were just looking for you!” a student says very loudly somewhere down the hall.

Everyone swivels their heads to see a black boy at the end of the hall, waving at someone around the corner. Hodge immediately steps back from the mustached teen -- Dugan -- and the semicircle Hodge’s friends had formed loosens.

“C’mon, guys,” Hodge grumbles. He jerks his head towards the opposite end of the hall and his friends follow his retreat, though he makes his parting shot loud enough for Steve to hear. “Bet Rogers is itching to paint Dugan’s picture now.”    

Steve’s about to launch himself after Hodge when the black boy jogs up to Steve’s locker where Dugan stands. “Seriously, Dum Dum? We’re supposed to be putting up signs, not brawling in the middle of the hallway,” the black boy sighs, one hand pressed to his forehead with exasperation and the other holding a stack of papers. “And where’d you put the tape?”

“If I were brawling, you’d know,” Dugan says proudly. “I was being an upstanding citizen. And I thought Frenchie had the tape. Oh, and here ya go, little guy.”

Steve bristles. “Don’t call me that,” he says, but accepts the notebook Dugan passes to him. “And I was fine on my own.”

“Hey, no offense meant, pal, but you really didn’t look fine on your own. ‘Sides, there’s no harm in a little help, yeah?”

Steve shrugs and glares moodily to the side. He knows he’s being rude and ungracious, but he’s still chomping at the bit for someone to lay into.

“O--kay,” the black boy says warily, shooting a glance to Dugan before extending a hand to Steve. “So, hi, I’m Gabe. I’m in grade nine and I like studying languages. This is Dum Dum, and he’s a senior and likes slacking off--”

“Hey!”

“-- and we’re part of Stand Up Club. We’re putting up signs for the club, if you wanna help.”

“This some kinda comedy club?” Steve asks, curious despite himself.

“We’re a barbershop quartet,” Gabe says dryly.

Gabe hands Steve one of the sheets from his stack. The posters are printed on a multitude of neon sheets; the one Steve takes is a noxious shade of yellow that hurts his eyes. _STAND UP CLUB_ , it proclaims boldly between clipart pictures of raised fists and megaphones. _STAND UP FOR WHAT’S RIGHT. DO YOUR PART TO STOP INJUSTICES AT HOME AND AROUND THE WORLD. Weekly meetings after school on Wed. Rm. 107._  

“Huh,” Steve says consideringly.

“Yup. So, if you’re interested…”

Steve chokes a little on a laugh. “Yeah, I’m interested, all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is a reference to Snickers "You're not you when you're hungry" commercials.
> 
> I'm going to try to keep updates frequent. Probably twice a week if not more while the creative juices are flowing smoothly. Comments are much loved!


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky feels like his skin is going to crawl off his flesh. He feels like his bones are going to dance out of his body or his toes are going to tap themselves bloody on the flooring. He’s burrowed in a bed of coals and he wants to scrape off his charred shell. He wants to run until the wind pierces his ear drums and his knees buckle with relief. He wants to _leave_.

But he wants to be good for Alex too. He does. Alex has been good for him, has brought him what he needs to slake that terrible thirst. Alex had stayed for the whole weekend, and his departures for work since the last delayed visit have been fewer and shorter in length. Alex had arranged his work schedule so that he could work online rather than in person, and it was so nice to wake up and not be alone. It was so nice.

However, Alex is gone again, and he is late returning again, and Bucky drank the last of his carefully rationed supply as 7 o'clock rolled around. As a result, Bucky is jittery with new energy that makes him feel like he can pluck the setting sun out of the sky and crush it in his palm. He feels invincible, even chancing a peek out the living room curtains, only hissing a little when the long rays of the low sun whiteout his vision.

He is terribly _present_ , and he zeroes in on familiar footsteps as soon as they depart from the sidewalk to tread up the front path of the housing complex.  

Impulsively, Bucky sticks his head out the front door and into the shared hallway, just in time to catch Steve with his door key poised at the lock of number 10. “Hiya, Steve!” Bucky chirps giddily.

Steve fumbles his key and it drops to the hallway carpet along with a sheaf of the papers from Steve’s arms. “Bucky!”

“Hi. Sorry.” Bucky practically giggles, though he brings a hand to his mouth in an attempt to stifle the embarrassing sound. “You’re home late.”

“And you’re out early,” Steve replies slowly, one eyebrow raised. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Where’ve you been?”

“Uh, I didn’t-- has it been weeks?”

“Yes!” Steve’s face twists in baffled concern. “You been all right, Buck?”

“Yup,” Bucky says, popping the P sound. “I’ve just-- been getting more rest. Going to bed early. Eating well, y’know. All that healthy stuff.”

“That’s good.” Steve smiles uncertainly. “I thought something was wrong. I mean… who was that guy?”

“What guy?”

Steve gives Bucky a pointed look. “The one who took you home the last night I saw you?”

Bucky laughs uncomfortably. “Right, yeah, that was-- my dad. He, uh, got home late. Works weird hours. You know. Your mom’s a nurse.”

“He a nurse too?”

“Ha, no, he’s… national security or something. I dunno. It’s not one of those jobs you dream of growing up to have, so it’s hard to explain. But he goes away sometimes. Hey, you wanna go out?”

“P-pardon?” Steve stammers, dropping the sheets he’d been in the process of retrieving from the ground. Steve loses his balance and awkwardly sinks to his knees in the mess of papers.

“Do you want to go out?” Bucky repeats, enunciating carefully.

Steve looks up at Bucky, his face bright red. Steve’s palms must be sweaty because there’s a sheet of paper stuck to his slack hand. The page looks ridiculous hanging there like an oversized bug and Bucky laughs into his fist, not wanting Steve to think Bucky’s laughing at Steve’s expense.

“I’m pretty damn sick of that playground and I really wanna go somewhere. Let’s go somewhere, Steve!”

“Why don’t you go by yourself?”

“It’s no fun by myself. C’mon, Steve.” Bucky bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet.

“I--” Steve seems to collect himself along with the fallen sheets, shuffling the pages into a stack in his arms and getting to his feet. “I--”

“Please? Please, Stevie? I never get to go anywhere.” Bucky puts on his saddest eyes and pouts so hard he can feel his chin crumpling.

Steve laughs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Fine, ya big baby. I was gonna go out to put up these posters anyway, if you don’t mind us finishing that before we do whatever.”

“What’re those for?” Bucky steps fully into the hall, careful to close his door behind him. He leans into Steve’s space to get a good look at the stack held against Steve’s chest. Steve’s throat clicks loudly and Bucky spares a look from beneath his lashes, noting that Steve still looks quite red. Steve’s breathing doesn’t sound laboured though, so Bucky returns to his examination of the posters to discover they’re announcements for an upcoming bake sale.  

“What’s Stand Up Club?”

“It’s-- it’s a club I joined. At school. We raise awareness about lots of local and world issues and we raise money to support different causes.” Steve doesn’t exactly look embarrassed, but there’s something uncomfortable and defensive about Steve’s posture.

“That’s cool.” Bucky repeats the sentiment when he sees Steve’s lips firm into a suspicious line: “That’s a swell thing to be a part of, Steve. Of course I don’t mind helping you put up posters.”

The defensive line of Steve’s shoulders relax and he smiles a little. “Okay. Great. Let me just leave a note for my ma.”

“I’ll wait here for you.”

“Um,” Steve’s eyes scan over Bucky, “I think you should at least put on shoes…”

Bucky looks down at his bare feet. He wiggles his pale toes in the stiff pile of the carpet. “Right. Okay, I’ll meet you back out here in five minutes?”

Steve smiles again, a tolerant sort of amusement apparent in the stretch of his lips. “Okay.”   

Bucky dashes back into his unit and digs out his boots from the back of the hall closet. They’re a bit old and in need of polish, but Bucky jams them on his feet anyway before realizing he probably should’ve checked the inside for spiders. And he should probably wear socks. One thought leads to another, and Bucky realizes he needs to layer on a bit more protection than a short sleeved t-shirt when the last rays of the sun are still sneaking about.

When Bucky emerges from his unit, his socked feet are laced neatly into his boots and he has a wide scarf pulled around his face under the hood of an oversized hoodie. Bucky slides on a pair of sunglasses before letting the overlong sleeves of the hoodie swallow his hands. He tucks his covered hands into the pocket over his belly for further protection and pulls idly at a loose thread he finds therein.

Steve is already in the hallway and he gives Bucky a bewildered once over, but doesn’t comment on the sunglasses, which Bucky appreciates.

“Ready?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods and braces himself for the dusk. He’s never dared to venture out so early and he is at once both thrilled and terrified. By this time, there shouldn’t be enough direct sunlight to harm him and he’s sure he’s taken enough precautions for the trip, but there are always variables that can’t be accounted for.

“Oh my God, when did it snow?” Bucky gasps after throwing open the door of the complex entryway.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters. “You really don’t get out enough. Do you even look out the window?”

Bucky doesn’t reply. He slides his sunglasses off.

The orange-tinted streetlights are just coming on. Overhead is a gradient of dark blues streaked with purpled clouds. Mostly obscured by tree branches and the silhouettes of distant buildings, the horizon is a russet stain on the hem of the sky. The thin layer of snow on the ground mirrors the display above it in softer shades made crisp by the contrasting shadows creeping up from the earth. Bucky doesn’t remember the last time he saw so much raw colour.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is gentle and probing. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, discreetly and shakily exhaling into his scarf. His skin prickles where it’s exposed to the light. His eyes feel hot so he slides his sunglasses back on, instantly dusting his view with familiar sooty greys. Steve is stopped next to Bucky on the front step and Bucky turns slightly to look at his concerned face. Bucky forgot to check what Steve looks like under the light of the sun.

 _Next time_ , Bucky thinks, and the thought makes something warm bloom behind his ribs. However, the feeling is quickly smothered by guilt as Bucky recalls Alex’s reprimand for haunting the playground. Bucky can only imagine how Alex will react to this little adventure. Except Alex isn’t here despite his assurances to the contrary, and Bucky isn’t even supposed to call Alex while he’s at work.

A jab from Steve’s elbow interrupts Bucky’s spiraling thoughts. “C’mon, let’s get these posters taped up so we can go do whatever it was you wanted. We should probably start at the community center--”

Bucky clears his throat. “Steve...” Bucky begins, voice hoarse.

Steve gives Bucky a long look that Bucky can’t decipher. “Anytime, Buck,” Steve says solemnly. “If you need anything, I’m right next door. Just-- anytime.”

The street is dark now. The slightly uncomfortable tingling in his skin has stopped, only the clouds left limned with the fire of the quick-sinking sun.

“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs, then straightens his back and leads Steve onto the shadowed sidewalk.   

 

***

 

In the end, not much is done that night. Steve and Bucky stroll around posting bake sale signs wherever they feel it’s a logical place for advertisement. Though the task seems tedious to Steve, Bucky is elated and almost manic, the lightest Steve has ever seen him.

In the following few nights they visit the local park to skip stones in the pond, they watch a few late night showings at theaters, and they sit together in a 24-hour McDonalds with Steve urging Bucky to partake in a small serving of Chicken McNuggets. Bucky staunchly refuses, citing dietary restrictions and a vast array of food allergies Steve finds hard to believe.

Steve falls into the habit of meeting up with Bucky every night, returning home late, and waking up with unsightly purple bags under his eyes. It’s great.

Despite his daily exhaustion, the long days are worth it to Steve. While a nagging voice at the back of Steve’s mind berates him for abusing his illness-prone body, Steve continues to see Bucky. Though Dugan, Gabe, and several other boys from Stand Up Club prove to be good school buddies, there is something unique about his interaction with Bucky. It’s not just that Bucky is unusual in his own right, from his perpetual forgetfulness when it comes to footwear to his obsessive need to bundle up when leaving the housing complex. It’s difficult to pinpoint, but Steve thinks it might be an understanding formed from shared experience. Not to say that they’ve lived the same lives or that Steve even knows Bucky’s life story. But Steve thinks there’s a kinship of sorts. The kind that comes from knowing isolation, whether the solitude is a result of a frail body or an unusual living arrangement.  

So when mid-December rolls around and Steve steps out of his unit after having dinner alone, Steve is a bit surprised to find that Bucky is not waiting in the hall as has become the norm. Bucky is almost always hovering outside Steve’s door this late in the evening, waiting for Steve to finish eating so they can find something to do outside.

Steve stands foolishly in the hall, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, the other cradling a cupcake from the Stand Up Club bake sale held earlier that day. He wants to surprise Bucky. While Bucky hadn’t seemed tempted by the McNuggets, Steve remembers the night they sat in a little coffee shop, the way Bucky surreptitiously sniffed at the hot chocolate Steve ordered when Steve offered to share. Hence the selection of a chocolate cupcake.  

Fifteen minutes pass before Steve decides to try the buzzer for number 8, only to find that the button is stuck, either broken or jammed by something. Undeterred, Steve knocks three times on the wood of the door, then another three times after ten minutes without a response.

For the first time, Steve regrets not owning a cellphone. When Steve was friendless it seemed to be an unnecessary expenditure, but Bucky’s sudden absence would be less frustrating if Steve could just text him for an explanation.

Steve spends nearly an hour knocking periodically on Bucky’s door before he calls it a night and heads back inside his own unit. By this time, the icing of the cupcake has melted a bit. Steve eats the chocolate cupcake, partly out of spite and partly because he knows it’ll be no good the next day anyway.

The next day is much the same. It’s Monday night, and while normally Steve wouldn’t risk disturbing someone at such a late hour, Steve reasons that Bucky seems most active at night, and thus more likely to hear his knocking. Still, the attempt garners no response and Steve spends another night alone at home, his ma working late as usual. The empty space is much too familiar for comfort, and Steve doesn’t like how easily he seems to slip back into a pattern of puttering around the place by himself.

It quickly becomes a routine. Steve eating dinner alone before knocking on Bucky’s door, only to receive no answer. Steve becomes frustrated enough that he outright hammers on the door one night, yelling at Bucky to get his ass outside.

By Saturday night, nearly one week since this nonsense began, it’s become a matter of principle. Steve is pissed enough to make hammering on Bucky’s door a nightly activity and he hopes the noise disrupts whatever it is Bucky spends his time doing when he suddenly fucks off without notice.

However, when Steve raises his fist to give the door the beating of its life, it opens before his knuckles can even brush the faded paint. Only, it isn’t Bucky standing on the other side and the wind is immediately taken out of Steve’s sails.

The man who answers the door looks to be in his sixties, his face weathered and his hair silvered. Broad shouldered and of average height, the man's crisp suit cuts a silhouette that speaks of a strong body softened by time. However, it is neither the man's stature nor his obvious wealth that make Steve step backwards. It is the look in the man's eyes as he evaluates Steve, something discomfiting veiled under a placid expression of civility.

"Good evening," the man greets Steve. "Who might you be?"

Steve’s earlier frustration is all but gone, evaporated in the face of this stranger.

"Hi, sorry to disturb you Mr..." Steve trails off. This must be Bucky's father, and it occurs to Steve that he doesn't know Bucky's surname. The man remains unhelpfully silent and Steve shifts to balance his weight on both feet. "I'm Steve. I’m a friend of Bucky’s. Is he home?"

Steve refuses to squirm as the man’s eyes move from Steve’s dust-infused canvas shoes to the rip in the knee of Steve’s jeans to the pilled wool of his sweater and the overlarge bulk of his father’s old coat. The man hums thoughtfully before replying, “I’m afraid James is feeling a bit under the weather. He can’t go out to play.”

Steve blinks, momentarily thrown by the name. But of course “Bucky” is only a nickname. Again, Steve wonders what “Bucky” is derived from if his name is actually “James.” Then the rest of the man’s words catch up to Steve, and a mix of concern and affront rises up in him. While there is nothing technically wrong with what the man says, it sounds somewhat condescending to Steve.

Steve doesn’t let himself visibly bristle. He doesn’t know this man and has no real reason to dislike him. While condescension rubs Steve the wrong way, it doesn’t justify hostility on Steve’s part.  

“If I may, I’d still like to see Bucky. To check on him and wish him better,” Steve says levelly. Steve doesn’t have the excuse of couriering homework from school for Bucky, but now that Steve knows the reason for Bucky’s absence, he feels badly for his behaviour in the past few days. Bucky might appreciate a bit of company anyway. Steve knows he would’ve liked a friend to drop by all those times he fell ill. It’s awfully boring to be stuck in bed all day, unless one is locked in fever.

The man smiles. “How thoughtful of you,” he says. “Still, I cannot in good conscience let you in to see James. You’re Sarah’s boy, aren’t you? A wonderful woman, I had a chat with her not too long ago. It seems to me that you should be more concerned with your own health, for your mother’s sake if not for your own.”

Steve does not like the idea of this man talking to his ma. Steve nearly lets his brow furrow, but manages to keep his expression bland. It seems important to keep his composure uncracked. To falter would be to lose ground in whatever tug-of-war they are currently engaged in, and as petty as it may be, Steve is nothing if not competitive.

“A few minutes won’t hurt,” Steve insists coolly. “I might as well start building up some immunity to this year’s bugs. I’m overdue, you see.”

After another assessing scan of Steve’s scrawny frame, the man unexpectedly acquiesces though his cordial smile doesn’t shift. “I can see you won’t be swayed,” he says, gesturing for Steve to step past him, “but please leave your shoes at the door as dirt has a way of inviting itself into the house if unchecked.”

Steve removes his shoes as asked, ignoring the thinly veiled aspersion in favour of scrutinizing the interior of unit number 8. The first thing Steve notices is how dim the unit is, every curtain drawn to omit the glow of the streetlights, and none of the overhead fixtures lit. The second is how sparsely furnished it is. For a man dressed in such luxury, the unit is contradictorily barren. A single standing lamp is switched on by an armchair in the living room, each piece economically plain rather than stylishly minimalistic. There is no other furniture in the living room, and Steve can see that the kitchen is similarly void, the counter empty of all but a large cooler.

It’s unsettling.

The man lets the door close naturally behind them, leaving it unlocked like he expects Steve will be in-and-out. Then he strolls into the kitchen. “Would you like anything to drink? Perhaps some orange juice?” the man asks Steve. When Steve politely declines, the man turns to the kitchen cabinets, going about the business of pouring himself some wine. The man pays no mind to Steve standing in the middle of his home and gives no clue as to which room Bucky is in.

Not that Steve minds. Steve actually prefers not having the man hovering. Because the floorplan of number 8 is a mirror of number 10’s, Steve knows there are two bedrooms. Working under the assumption that the master bedroom belongs to Bucky’s father, Steve approaches the smaller bedroom.

Steve is sure he navigates the small unit correctly, but the open door to the smaller bedroom reveals only a large desk with a laptop and an ergonomic chair. Steve stands in the doorway.

It is a study. It can’t be Bucky’s room, except it has to be because there’s only one other bedroom.

Then Steve hears a sound from behind the closed door of the next room, the master bedroom. A whimper.

The tension Steve hadn’t even noticed growing in him suddenly snaps.

Steve pretty much falls on to the door of the master bedroom. His fingers slip in their haste to grab the door knob and his grappling shakes the door in its frame, rousing the occupant of the master bedroom. “Alex?”

Steve is horrified when the door doesn’t budge and he can barely think. Steve doesn’t know the exact source of his surging panic, can’t explain the certainty behind his actions. There’s something simmering hotly in his chest, and all he knows is that he has to get inside. He has to get to _Bucky_.

He twists the knob furiously, throwing all of his ninety pounds against the wood to force it open and nearly falling onto his face when the door unsticks from its crooked hinges to swing open.

Steve’s not sure what he expected to find in the room, so it takes him a moment to process what he sees.

Like the rest of the unit, the master bedroom is dark, the curtains drawn and the overhead light unlit. The only furniture in the room is a bedside table and a large bed. The red digits of a digital clock highlight the edges of the rumpled bedding and the figure secreted between the sheets.

Bucky lies face down on the bed, nearly hidden by the shadows and the piled blankets, only a dangling arm and a mop of dark hair peeking out to mark his presence. Alerted by Steve’s loud entry, Bucky slowly turns his head towards the door, eyes glittering with the red light of the clock. Bucky’s hair is matted with sweat and it clings to his wan face in inky tendrils. His cheeks look hollow. His pale and chapped lips are set in a pained line that twitches into a confused frown.

“Steve?” Bucky asks weakly. Bucky’s eyes look overbright and unfocused, underscored by deep smudges that look more like smeared mascara than signs of sleeplessness.

“Bucky--”

Bucky’s eyes widen to expose the whites around his irises as he seems to gain full consciousness. “Steve! What’re ya crazy? Why are you here? Steve--”

“I--” Steve starts. He can’t put his reasons into words. “Buck--”

“No,” Bucky says. “Fucking hell, no. What’re ya doing here? _Steve_ ,” Bucky groans, turning his face back into the pillows and digging his hands into tangled hair. “No! Ale-- Dad!”

Steve doesn’t understand. There is something wrong, Steve knows there’s something wrong. He feels it deeply, a gut instinct honed by a lifetime of being antagonized. There’s something uncanny staring Steve in the face, but he just can’t _see_ it.

“What’s going on here?”

Steve spins around to look behind him, and the unease Steve feels sharpens. He forgot about the man-- Bucky’s father. Somehow he forgot about this man.

The man steps into the bedroom-- into the _only_ bedroom, some part of Steve screams. The man carries a wineglass in one hand. His position cuts Steve off from the exit, but as the distance between the man and Bucky closes, what begins as wariness quickly morphs into a cold, consuming _rage_.

The black mood must not show on Steve’s face, because the man steps past Steve where Steve is frozen in place, afraid to move lest he do something he’ll regret. The man settles comfortably on the edge of Bucky’s bed and deposits his wineglass on the bedside table, the red wine distorting the digits of the clock. The man reaches out to weave his fingers into Bucky’s hair, pushing the damp strands back from his forehead.

Bucky practically snuffles into the touch before recoiling. “Why’d ya let him in, A-- Dad? Why’d you-- Please. Please, don’t. Don’t do this t’me,” Bucky slurs nonsensically.

“Slow down, son,” the man soothes Bucky. “Like I said, James here hasn’t been feeling well,” he says to Steve as an aside, and a little choked sound escapes Bucky. Steve’s teeth grind. “Now your friend, Steve, insisted on seeing you. He’s a very thoughtful boy, isn’t he?”

“Please,” Bucky groans pitifully, head lolling under his father’s hand. Steve tastes copper from where he’s angrily bitten into the inside of his cheek.

Bucky lets out a strange, thready wail and curls into a ball. “Get out, Steve. Please, go!”

Like hell, Steve will go. Not when Bucky is-- not when Bucky’s hurting like this in the dark. Not when Bucky is visibly shaking under the blankets. Not when Steve can see strange red marks crawling up the back of Bucky’s neck where the sheets have slipped. He opens his mouth to say as much and Bucky spasms on the bed. “GET OUT. GET OUT--”

Steve jolts awake, jackknifing up from his bed. He’s nearly hyperventilating, and he can feel his airways constricting. His vision greys as he scrambles for the inhaler he keeps at his bedside, and the first dose of medication relieves his breathing and calms his panicked mind.

Steve feels disoriented and fatigued, his rest spoiled by-- one helluva dream. While the details are already slipping away, Steve’s hands tremble from residual tension, and Steve can still feel the vestiges of a thick and unfamiliar rage.

He laughs a little nervously, dragging a hand over his hair to grip the back of his neck.

There’s a film of sweat on his face and his clothes stick uncomfortably-- his clothes-- Steve kicks his blankets away. Looks at socked feet, his ripped jeans and woolen sweater. His father’s old coat.

His clothes.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the encouragement, everyone! As always, comments are much appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a problem, and it was that the story wouldn't let me go to sleep. So I wrote another 1k in 3 godforsaken hours and I just had to post it immediately. I also broke the pattern of one half Bucky-POV and one half Steve-POV, so this chapter is short and all Bucky-POV. Thanks for reading and commenting! It really adds fuel to the writing-fire, knowing that somehow people are eager to follow this down its dark path.
> 
> WARNING: non-con/dub-con elements, non-explicit sexual content

Bucky knows he’s made a mistake when Steve stumbles backwards, a puppet spinning clumsily on its heel. He-- he didn’t mean to-- But Bucky can’t think. It’s too much. That sweet copper scent in the air, so faint yet so alluring, a drop of water poised to fall onto his parched tongue. Thank God he’s too weak. _Thank God._

He barely has the presence of mind to refine the compulsion. Hates himself as he does it. Knows it’s necessary. “Go home, Steve,” Bucky says in that voice. Tries to make the commands clear. “Go home, go to bed. This night-- is a dream.”

Steve nods loosely, eyes vacant, limbs lethargic as he trudges from the room, removing temptation. So malleable. Sleepwalking. 

Bucky hates himself. What a fucking atrocity. What an unforgivable violation. God, God, _God_ , why--?

“Alex, why?” Bucky whispers. His eyes burn. Even the red light from the digital clock is too bright. “Wh-why’d you let ‘im in?” When Bucky is so weak, so on edge, so  _hungry_ .

“No harm, no foul,” Alex shrugs, taking up his wineglass. Alex takes a sip of his red wine. And though it’s obvious to Bucky that the wine is just wine, it looks-- so red.

The realization comes slowly to Bucky’s clouded mind. “You-- you wanted me to use that voice. To compel him. You wanted me to.”

“Yes. I did,” Alex says.

“But I--” Bucky chokes. Feels acid at the back of his throat. Stomach clenching with the absolute self-disgust that rolls through him. More pain for his weak and aching body. Turmoil to sharpen the biting, burning line cutting into the skin of his neck. “You know I-- You know I _hate_ \--”

“I know,” Alex interrupts. “I know you hate putting others under your influence. I know you hate your nature. However, I think you’ve forgotten exactly what your nature entails.” Alex sighs, stroking his hand through Bucky’s hair again, tugging at the locks so Bucky is forced to look up at Alex, unable to hide his tear-streaked face in the pillow. “You needed the reminder.”

“That I’m a monster,” Bucky murmurs.

“That you’re a monster,” Alex agrees. “And that there’s a reason you need to stay inside where it’s safe.” Alex slides his hand down to cup Bucky’s cheek. “For you, and for others,” he says, catching a fresh tear on the pad of his thumb. “It was a harsh lesson, but a necessary one. And the boy was never in any true danger. I’m not a cruel man. I put you in silver for a reason.”

Another wave of pain blazes through Bucky at the reminder of the silver chain looped around his neck, like just the mention of silver is enough to hurt him. Funny, how a piece of jewellery can bring Bucky to his knees. The silver scorches like a ray of bleached, metallic sunlight. It makes the skin of Bucky’s neck red-raw and tender. It makes him kitten-weak and pliant. Keeps his teeth dull and human, fangs locked under his gums. Simple for Alex to handle, to carry from Bucky’s bathtub nest to the bedroom. So easily tamed, caught off guard in his deep day-sleep and awakened by the scalding pain.  

“It’s my fault,” Alex sighs. He drains the last of the wine from the glass and sets the empty glass back on the bedside table. “I’ve spoilt you, made you complacent, and for that I’m sorry, but you left me no choice. Help me understand why you ignored my requests. For years I’ve provided for you: clothing, shelter, food. For years you’ve been good. All I ever asked was for you to stay where it’s safe, and you did. Until recently. What is it about this boy that makes you risk exposure to either the sun or the public eye? What would the world do to you if it ever learned of your existence? What would you do? What would _I_ do?”

Bucky’s eyes widen at the way Alex’s voice grows uncharacteristically rough. “Alex--”

“What would _I do, James?_ ” Alex repeats, grip tightening on Bucky’s face. “If you burned up in the sun-- If some government agency put the pieces of you into little jars--”

“Alex--”

Alex shakes Bucky, the action digging Alex’s thumbnail into Bucky’s cheek and drawing a thin line of blood. Alex’s other hand clamps onto the other side of Bucky’s face. He leans over Bucky, drags Bucky closer, and the angle is awkward, makes it hard for Bucky to breathe, makes the silver dig in between the notches of his spine.

“You are _mine_ ,” Alex snarls. “You _promised_.”

It’s said so fiercely, but Bucky is suddenly reminded of a much younger voice. A plaintive whine from the lips of a golden haired boy, a little princeling pouting on the steps of his family’s summer residence. An indignant stomp of polished Oxfords as the child demanded to know why his protector refused to accept a formal title on his father’s staff.

“Alex,” Bucky says again, his voice softer, eyes softer. Bucky crawls closer to ease the angle of his neck. Bucky pushes up on shaky arms until he rests on his haunches, Alex’s hands never leaving Bucky’s face. Bucky lets his head droop in submission, lets Alex’s hands support the weight of his skull. “I’m sorry, Alexander.”

Alex’s grip on Bucky loosens slightly. “You wanted to stop killing, and I found a way for you to live with clean hands, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Bucky agrees.

Alex leans forward, resting his forehead against Bucky’s. “You wanted a home, and I gave you one, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Bucky agrees.

Alex’s lips brush against Bucky’s cheek as he speaks, smearing his mouth with tears and blood. “You hated your life, and I made it better, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Bucky agrees, letting Alex tilt his face until their noses are pressed side by side.  

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” Alex breathes out, his exhale scented with the salt of Bucky’s blood.

“I am,” Bucky says, the words barely finished before Alex’s mouth is sealed over his in a brutal kiss.

Alex’s hands are rough as they push Bucky back on the bed, and Bucky doesn’t hiss in pain as the silver necklace is jostled. Bucky is unaffected by the cold air and doesn’t shiver when the sheets are thrown haphazardly to the ground. Bucky doesn’t flinch away from the sharp drag of nails across his tender skin. Doesn’t hurt any worse from the stretch of his legs being pushed apart. Doesn’t register the awed gasps of _beautiful, always so beautiful._

Bucky runs fingers gently through Alex’s tawny hair, the once-gold strands blood-red in the glow of the clock.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated as regularly as I'd hoped. The end of summer has been so busy, and now that school's beginning again, I am already ahead of the procrastination game, if that's possible. Here is a chapter I wrote while trying to deny the realities of day and night. I hope the writing doesn't sound as sleep deprived as I think it might, but I just really wanted to finally update. Thank you for your patience and your support. It really helps!

“Is something bothering you, Sweetie?”

Steve blinks blearily at his cereal. The Cheerios-- some sort of cereal, what did he pour into his bowl--?

“--Sweetie, Steve? Are you--”

“What?” Steve shakes his head, trying to focus. He poured himself a bowl of Cheerios, obviously. Well, some generic version of Cheerios. Toasted Oat O’s or something. The budget must be getting tighter than he realized. The O’s are in the bowl in front of him at the moment. They’ve been there for many moments, growing soggy, nearly liquefying. “Sorry-- What were you saying, Ma?”

Sarah Rogers watches Steve carefully from across the breakfast table. Steve tries to look well rested and happy under her scrutiny, but it’s hard. It feels like there are grains of sand trapped under his eyelids, scraping their way across his corneas with every slow blink. He’s so tired. His fatigue is evident in the way he slept in his street clothes and woke up disoriented. His senses feel foggy and disconnected, like lightning shot through his nerves and left the pathways fried.

“I was asking if you were all right, Steve,” Sarah says. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line now, pale because it’s Sunday morning-- yes, it’s Sunday, not-- it’s Sunday morning, and so Sarah doesn’t have to be at the hospital. On Sundays, Sarah elects to forgo the light make-up she wears to work, meaning no lip-stick, meaning pale lips and pale-lipped frowns like the one she’s directing at Steve.  

“Yeah, Ma, I’m fine,” Steve says. He stirs his cereal, not having much of an appetite. Especially not for the slop his cereal has become. But Steve is not a wasteful person, so he spoons up some soggy cereal to shovel into his mouth. The texture is as awful as it looks.

Sarah is clearly unconvinced by Steve’s halfhearted reassurance. She sighs and glances down at the mug of watery coffee in her hands. “I know these last couple of months must’ve been hard on you, Sweetie, but things should settle down at the hospital soon. It’s just been taking longer than expected to get comfortable with my new job and colleagues--”

“Have they been giving you a rough time at the hospital?” Steve asks suspiciously.

“Nothing like that.” Sarah laughs, shaking her head fondly at the way Steve automatically goes on the defensive. “Well, not much like that.”

That sharpens Steve’s attention, finally, after a morning of uncertainty and feeling out of sorts. Steve chews through another spoonful of cereal, waiting for Sarah to elaborate.

“There’s a visiting doctor of some kind. He’s been working here for a few years now, but nobody’s sure what his purpose at the hospital is, though there’s a betting pool on whether he’s working for a private pharmaceutical company or he’s part of a government conspiracy.”

“That’s exciting. Did you place any money?”

“Now, Steve, you know my thoughts on gambling,” Sarah chides Steve. Steve nods dutifully. “But if I were to place money, I’d definitely go with government conspiracy.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

“Dr. Zola is… a bit grating, to put it mildly,” Sarah says. She adds a touch more cream into her coffee and gives it a good stir. “I’ve heard he’s got an awful bedside manner, and-- look at me gossiping like a schoolgirl, I might as well say it-- he’s downright beastly towards the nurses. It’s a good thing he brought his own staff, but I do feel sorry for those poor things. I hope they’re at least making good money to put up with him.”

Sarah takes a sip of her coffee and chuckles to herself. “Lorraine was saying how Dr. Zola must have short-man syndrome--” Sarah pauses, “But of course she’s just joking. It’s a mean joke with no real basis--”

“It’s fine, Ma.” Steve smiles, only rolling his eyes a little. “I’m not sensitive about my height. I’ve still got plenty of time to grow, and even if I don’t--” Steve shrugs.

“Good. Keep that attitude,” Sarah says, slipping into a familiar and recurring lecture. “It’s what’s inside that matters, and a suddenly changed exterior counts for nothing. Don’t let a pretty face--”

_\--overbright eyes shining in the red light. Dark smudges like smeared mascara--_   

“--Steve?”

“Um,” Steve says intelligently. His face feels hot. His gut clenches from a mixture of unappetizing cereal, embarrassment, and-- a burning sort of-- a sort of displeasure.

Sarah’s concerned frown slowly melts into a knowing look that sets Steve on edge in a different way.

“Y’know, I thought you might be coming down with something,” Sarah says, hiding a slowly growing smile behind her coffee mug.

“No, Ma, I’m not getting sick. Don’t worry so much,” Steve says. He lifts his cereal bowl to tip the last of the cereal and milk into his mouth, forgoing his table manners in favour of staring intently at the bottom of the cereal bowl.

“Well, you’ve caught _some kind_ of bug.” Steve can hear the glee in Sarah’s voice and nearly chokes on his mouthful of cereal sludge.

“ _No_.”

“All right, fine. Don’t tell me. It’s not like I work more hours than I get to spend with you--”

“No--”

“--And it’s not like I want to hear about what’s going on in your life because I care--”

“ _Ma_ ,” Steve groans, trying not to curl up with embarrassment. “Please, I’m not sick, I’m not--” Steve sighs. The cereal sits like liquid cement in his stomach and he feels abruptly tired, but he keeps his mind on the moment, not-- not drifting anywhere else. “Ma, I’m fine, and there’s nothing… I’m fine.”

Steve sets his empty bowl back on the tabletop and watches a trickle of milk as it settles to the bottom, trailing tiny granules of sugar and cereal crumbs. When he looks up at Sarah, her expression has dimmed and her eyes are searching and concerned.

“I want you to be more than just ‘fine,’ Sweetie,” Sarah says.

“I know, Ma.” Steve stands up before Sarah can say anything else, gathering his bowl and spoon to wash at the sink. “I can get the groceries today.”

“Steve--”

“It’s your day off, so you should relax. Take it easy. Have some time for yourself.” Steve quickly scrubs down the dishware in the sink and deposits it in the rack to dry. He turns to pluck the shopping list off the fridge and doesn’t let his eyes linger where Sarah remains seated at the kitchen table, old pink bathrobe wrapped tightly against the wintry chill that somehow manages to pervade the unit, flaxen hair limp around her thin face.

Steve hastens to the front door, tucking the shopping list and some grocery money into the pocket of his jeans. He’s momentarily puzzled when he can’t find his shoes, but figures it’s Sarah’s way of telling him it’s time to switch to his winter boots, so he digs them out of the hall closet and slips them on to his feet. He’s out the door in minutes, calling out a loud goodbye to Sarah and receiving a faint echo in reply.

Steve’s winter boots are old but sturdy and still too big for his feet, purchased years ago in the wrong size under the mistaken belief that he’d “grow into them.” He hates wearing them on account of the way they make him look duck-footed while also impeding his steps with their weight and ill-fit. However, his clunky steps suit his mood as he trudges across slushy sidewalks, mentally berating himself for being a lousy son. This continues all the way to the nearest grocery store, through the automatic doors and up and down the aisles, every ungainly plod of his booted foot another reprimand in his brain. Thus, Steve doesn’t notice Dugan until Dugan’s bear-like hand slaps down on Steve’s shoulder, nearly knocking the can of soup out of Steve’s grip.

“Rogers!” Dugan beams down at Steve. “If you daydreamed this much in class, the teachers would love you!”

Steve shrugs off Dugan’s hand. “Someone’s got to be awake in class, and it sure as hell ain’t the teachers.”

There’s a round of guffaws, and Steve looks away from the rows of soup to see that Dugan is accompanied by Jim and Monty, two other boys that Steve has gotten to know through Stand Up Club. “So do you guys regularly hang out in the grocery store on Sundays?”

“No,” Jim snorts, “but if this is where  _you_ regularly hang out on Sundays, I’m sure we’d all be willing to change our routines. I don’t think we’ve ever seen you outside of school, Rogers.”

“It’s a bit of an achievement when we must all live in the same area to attend the same school,” Monty agrees. “We just popped in to buy some snacks for a film, and lo and behold, there you are, staring the soup cans down.”

“Wouldya like to come with, when you’re done with your shopping?” Dugan asks. “We haven’t really decided on a movie yet, but it’s going to have explosions, and it’s going to be on Monty’s huge-ass TV.”

“I--” Steve starts. He’s not in the mood for company, but he’s always been terrible at lying, let alone coming up with excuses on the spot.

“Y’know, Gabe has the excuse of helping Frenchie at the library, but I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to do,” Jim says, watching Steve sweat. “Loosen up a little, Rogers. Hate to say it, but that stick up your ass is gonna come out the top of your head one of these days.”

Steve frowns, “Hey--”

“C’mon, Rogers!” Dugan cuts in with another mighty pat upon Steve’s shoulder, nearly sending Steve into a shelf of chicken stock. “We’ll even help speed up the shopping. Monty’s silver spoon can’t do shit, but me an’ Jimmy can sniff out good deals within a ten mile radius.”

Dugan snatchs the shopping list out of Steve’s hand and proceeds to tug Steve around by the arm he drapes across Steve’s shoulders. It feels a bit like being tackled by a sheep dog, and Steve finds himself going along with it, standing dumbly as his shopping basket is quickly filled with all the essentials at the lowest prices. Dugan and Jim efficiently track down the items on Steve’s list while Monty dithers around the name brand products, nose scrunching slightly each time his artisan or organic recommendations are ignored in favour of more affordable sustenance.

Steve wants to feel annoyed about the whole ordeal, but he can’t rouse his usual indignation. Steve knows he can be a bit sensitive about his economic situation, hating the pitying looks he’s received in the past for tattered clothing and school lunches, but Dugan and Jim seem to be as practiced as Steve at being frugal, and Monty seems more miffed about the low nutritional value of the food going into Steve’s basket than anything.

Before Steve knows it, they’re at the check-out, and Steve leaps to pay the cashier before the glint in Monty’s eye turns into an act of charity Steve absolutely cannot accept. Then they’re in the parking lot of the grocery store, Steve’s groceries getting loaded into an old pick-up truck despite Steve’s insistence that he can walk home just fine.

Somehow, Steve is herded into the the front of the pick-up while Dugan slides into the driver’s seat. Jim and Monty hop into the bed of the truck alongside the groceries, and Steve’s warning about passenger safety is drowned out by the rumble of the engine and the rattle of the old pick-up’s frame on worn out shocks. Trying to direct Dugan to Steve’s housing complex using a combination of shouting and hand signals, Steve suddenly has a better understanding of why Dugan always seems so loud.

When Dugan parks in the lot beside the housing complex, the cessation of sound is jarring, but more so are the wary looks exchanged between the other boys as they clamber out of the pick-up.

“What?” Steve asks, his voice overloud in the quiet. He can’t imagine them having a problem with his housing situation after seeing the junker Dugan drives.

“Nothing,” Dugan says, “just didn’t know you lived here, is all.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “That a problem?”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Rogers, no. It’s just that this place is the closest thing the area has to a haunted house.”

Steve’s eyes widen and his eyebrows rise. “A haunted house? This is a fully occupied housing complex. Nothing abandoned or derelict about it. I mean, well, maybe it needs a bit of fixing up in parts, but there’re plenty of people living in it, so.”

“Let’s just say you missed the shitshow that’s Halloween around these parts,” Jim says. “Lotsa kids double-dog daring each other to sit on the playground.”

“What? What’s so scary about a playground?” Steve asks.

“Some say the playground’s haunted,” Jim answers. “I know, I know, don’t give me that look, Rogers. I’m just telling you what people say.”

“And what does this ghost look like?” Steve asks, not even bothering to keep the derision from his voice. “Is it a little girl in a white dress? No wait, it’s a pair of twin girls, isn’t it. Do they ask people to come play with them and then disappear?”

“No,” Dugan says, uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s a boy with bare feet who sits on the swings and never makes a sound.”

A chill runs down Steve’s spine, quickly followed by a burst of irritation. “Ha-ha, guys. That ain’t nice.”

Steve seems to go unheard as Monty asks Dugan, “You’ve seen the ghost?”

Steve frowns. “Guys, that’s not--”

Jim sighs. “Really, Dugan? First a lucky bowler hat, then the cursed football, now a haunted--”

“I’ve seen ‘im, all right,” Dugan confirms, talking over Jim’s grumbling. “Remember that time I got lost trick-or-treating--”

“And you turned up on my doorstep looking like you’d seen a ghost? Are you trying to tell me you actually saw a ghost that night?” Monty asks. “I thought you’d just had a fright because you lost our little trick-or-treating group.”

“I got a little turned around, looking for you and Jim, alright, but I saw-- nothing bloody, and it’s not like the walls were bleeding or anything, but-- something was _off_ , y’know? It was just a bit _too_ cold, a bit _too_ quiet, and I’m walking in the dark, and then there’s this teen sitting on the swings. And at first I thought it was just some guy, but. He was sitting there looking like--” Dugan’s face scrunches as he fails to wrangle an adequate description, “but-- I swear I just blinked and he was gone. Just gone--”

“Seriously!” Steve practically shouts. “No need to drag this on, guys. And it’s not funny, making fun of Bucky like this.”

Dugan, Monty, and Jim trade glances, and it’s Dugan who asks, “Who?” seeming honestly puzzled by Steve’s outburst.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, rolling his eyes. “Y’know, the guy that lives here and sometimes likes to sit on the swings.”

Jim squints skeptically. “So you’ve met the ghost?”

“He’s not a ghost!” Steve throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. “He’s my neighbor.”

“What does he look like?” Dugan asks, eyes strangely intent on Steve.

Steve sighs. “Yes, he does like to wear black, and yes, he seems to have a problem with shoes, and okay, maybe he’s a bit pale and likes to go outside at night, but lots of teens are night owls--”

“So he’s our age?” Dugan presses.

Steve’s brows furrow. “Yeah--”

“I was eight years old when I saw what I saw. You telling me that ten years later, the guy still looks like a teen?” Dugan shakes himself as he straightens his posture. “I’m not making anything up, and even if you guys always think I’m some superstitious loon, you’ve gotta agree that this is still creepy as fuck.”

Steve is at a loss for words.

“Maybe creepy in the way it sounds like some thirty-year-old with a baby face has been chatting with Steve,” Jim comments. Jim’s face is puckered like he’s licked something sour and unpleasant. “That’s creepy, but that ain’t no ghost story.”

“That’s creepy too, but it’s not what I meant,” Dugan argues. “I swear, it’s nothing so run-of-the-mill as some skeevy old bag. I mean I’ve seen creepy weirdos-- remember that time we had to wait in the ER for my leg, Monty?” Monty nods sagely. “See, it wasn’t nothing like that. Nothing like-- like social discomfort. It was like… Like knowing that I shouldn’ta skipped Mass, and I shouldn’ta snuck out to go trick-or-treating, and I damn well should’ve taken my Ma’s crucifix with me if I was gonna.”

Jim whistles. “That’s pretty intense. Hey, Monty, were Dum Dum’s pants wet when he showed up at your front door? I don’t remember--”

Monty smirks. “Maybe a bit damp.”

“Liar!” Dugan yelps.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jim says, “point is, Steve, that this ‘Bucky’ fella seems a bit shady. Whether he’s some baby-faced recluse or a-- ghost.” Jim looks disappointed in himself for uttering the word, but Dugan nods enthusiastically over Jim’s shoulder.

Steve flexes his hands, consciously loosening the tension gathered in his limbs. Steve takes a calming breath and tries to center himself before opening his mouth. “Look, guys,” Steve says, “I-- appreciate that you’re trying to… look out for me, but.” But it’s uncalled for and unnecessary and it makes a strange, hot anger stir in Steve’s veins to hear them talking about Bucky like this. To hear them describe him as some kind of freak or nightmare when they don’t know him; haven’t even really seen him or the way his bare toes curl nervously in the dust, the way his hair sweeps down to hide his sheepish blush.

Unbidden, a clouded impression of Bucky limned in red light rises in Steve’s mind. There is something so visceral about the scene, yet so unreal. Like plunging into a new reality, the image is difficult to hold. It is as if the rush of chemical reactions in Steve’s body carves a channel that shoots him straight through and to the other side, untouched by those sights and sounds his mind tries desperately to cling to. There is the impression of Bucky, distressed and vulnerable. There is the unsettling sense of someone else. And anger. That anger, which--     

The sharp taste of blood makes Steve blink.

Dugan, Jim, and Monty watch Steve warily, Dugan with his hands outstretched as if prepared to catch Steve. Thus Steve realizes that he is rocking slightly on his heels, his legs unsteady beneath him and his bottom lip bloody between the rows of his own incisors.

“I’m going home,” Steve says at last. “Thanks for the ride and all your help. I’ll see you at school.”

Steve takes the grocery bags from Dugan’s truck and hefts the whole load without assistance, arms trembling and pulled taut at his sides by the weight. The others make noises about helping him, but Steve is adamant and his expression must serve as sufficient warning since they make no move to actually take the bags from Steve’s hands. Instead, they make their farewells and Dugan, Jim, and Monty pile slowly back into the truck while Steve trudges into the housing complex, knowing he is being unreasonably curt with the others, but also unable to scrounge up the energy to care.

When Steve enters through his front door, he is glad to find that Sarah is in the bathroom. Judging by the faint aroma Steve can detect through the closed bathroom door, she is probably having a well deserved soak with some of the bath salts Steve gifted her last Christmas, so Steve takes the time to properly store the new groceries before retiring to his room, locking his door to ensure undisturbed privacy. He is not fit for company.

Steve’s earlier guilt regarding his behaviour towards his mother is still there, now compounded by the knowledge that he _should_ feel remorseful about his treatment of Dugan, Jim, and Monty. However, these feelings are somehow subsumed by that deep and abiding anger that seems to dog Steve’s thoughts these days.

Steve has always been quick to pick fights in the defence of his beliefs, but he wonders when anger became his second nature. He wonders when it will become his first.        

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay I managed to update in a timely manner. Hope this chapter isn't confusing. It starts with a memory and then resumes in the regular timeline.

When Bucky lived in DC, he stayed in a penthouse not far from Alex’s workplace. The penthouse was a statement of quiet luxury: gleaming hardwood flooring, floor-to-ceiling windows, spacious roof-top garden, marble countertops, and designer furniture and appliances. Though the price tag on any aspect of the penthouse was extravagant, each item was sleek and trimmed down to a stylish minimalism so different from the old-money grandeur Alex was raised around.

Though the floor-to-ceiling windows were not ideal for Bucky’s condition, the location and all its amenities were too good to resist. Bucky hid in the windowless den during the daylight hours, nestled between sheets of Egyptian cotton, nose buried in yesterday’s newspaper. Alex stayed every other night, and on those mornings he departed the penthouse for work, he pulled the sheets just low enough to kiss the crown of Bucky’s head.

On weekdays, Alex needed his sleep and did little more than eat at the dining table before turning in for the night, but Bucky appreciated the company. Bucky liked cooking dinner for Alex, liked placing orders for groceries, liked watching cooking shows on the giant television screen and trying to replicate the featured dishes. Bucky liked how Alex ate Bucky’s cooking, even when the product was overdone or a little burnt, and Bucky liked how Alex’s eyebrows rose when Bucky added the perfect amount of seasoning. Bucky liked the way Alex’s face relaxed in sleep, the stress of his job wiped away. Bucky liked the way the Egyptian cotton sheets grew warm with Alex’s body heat, and the way the night was just a little less empty.

On weekends, Alex stayed up late with Bucky. Hours flew by in easy conversation. Sometimes they played chess, which Bucky would lose; or cards, which Bucky would actually often win. Sometimes they did nothing more than sit side by side, Bucky’s head leant against Alex’s chest, and Bucky would listen to Alex’s deep, even breathing and the steady thump of his heart.  

Every night that Alex stayed, Bucky looked at Alex, at his golden hair and faintly silvered temples, at his clear blue eyes and the crow’s feet shaded by his long, pale lashes. Bucky looked at Alex, and Bucky smiled. And when Bucky smiled, Alex smiled back.

The final night that Alex spent with Bucky in the DC penthouse began in the usual way. It was winter and a weekday night, and Bucky prepared a satisfactory risotto. The fragrance of the cooking permeated the penthouse despite the efficient ventilation system. It made the penthouse cozy and warm, a welcoming flame in the winter night.

Alex smiled when he entered the penthouse and hung his great coat carefully in the coat closet. Alex didn’t bother changing his clothes before dinner and only draped his suit jacket over the back of a dining chair before taking his seat at the head of the table, Bucky already seated and waiting on the right.

Bucky looked at Alex while Alex ate. They talked about their days. Alex’s panel spent ten hours locked in a room conferring over a new project on biological agents, medical technology, and countermeasures to biological warfare. Bucky’s attempt to read _Anna Karenina_ in the original Russian was less fruitful, and he switched to reading the newspaper again sometime after he threw the Russian-English dictionary behind the couch.

After Alex finished his dinner, Bucky cleared the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Bucky loosened Alex’s tie and rolled it carefully to tuck in the pocket of Alex’s suit jacket. Bucky led Alex to the couch and curled up against Alex’s side once Alex was seated. They kept the lights low and didn’t turn on the television, instead looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sparkle of city lights beyond.

Though nocturnal, it was easy for Bucky to fall into a doze surrounded by the scent of Alex’s cologne and under the warmth of Alex’s arm. The penthouse was high enough to escape most city sounds, and the excellent soundproofing further dampened intrusive stimuli, leaving Bucky with only the faint buzz of electricity and the soft sounds of Alex.   

The peace was ended by shrill ringing from Alex’s cellphone. Alex answered, of course, taking the call out on the balcony where the wind swept his words away. It was a short call and Alex returned indoors after only a couple of minutes, but Bucky knew immediately that something was wrong. Bucky knew by the tense line of Alex’s shoulders and by Alex’s shuttered eyes. Most of all, Bucky knew by Alex’s silence, by his curt departure and the final susurration of the elevator doors closing behind him as he descended to the lobby.

Alex’s suit jacket remained folded over the dining chair. The couch quickly grew cold in his absence and a draft swept into the penthouse through a slit left in the improperly closed sliding doors.

Bucky closed the doors to the balcony and sat where Alex had sat. He stared glumly at the evening paper he’d piled carelessly on the coffee table and waited until the first rays of dawn began to creep over the horizon. Then Bucky retreated to the den and waited some more, hoping for some word from Alex, but knowing that Alex never called. Only Buck would call Alex. And only for an emergency. That was the rule.

Three nights passed before Bucky ventured out and inadvertently found what had called Alex away. Bucky was used to Alex visiting every other night, and there had been no extended absences in the years Bucky lived in DC. Bucky had forgotten this degree of loneliness and it was with a mixture of anxiety and frustration that Bucky took the elevator down to the lobby, intending to grab the evening paper and chat with the concierge. However, upon seeing HOSTAGES IN BOGOTA printed in bold letters across the evening paper, Bucky only had the presence of mind to snatch up the newspaper and hurry back into the elevator.

Bucky read the entire article twice though he knew what it would say before he read it once. The United States embassy in Bogota had been stormed. A dozen political officers were held hostage. Their names were not listed, but Bucky knew that there was a paper in some government office, somewhere, and on that paper was the name _Eliza Pierce_. And in some separate government office somewhere else, there was a meeting room teeming with suits, and one of those suits was Alex, face stoney and voice level as he spoke into a phone and tried to squeeze information, cooperation, _help_ , out of every contact in his phonebook.

Bucky knew those contacts would help. Of course they would. Alex was an important man though his name was not circulated in public spheres. But Bucky also knew with a prescient confidence that their help would not be enough. That after the fear settled and the wounded were counted, Alex would turn to the only contact not listed in his phonebook. Alex was a shrewd man and it was in his nature to be prepared, to plan for all eventualities, to fortify against future threats. Alex would call, and Bucky would answer. Alex would ask, and Bucky-- and Bucky--

Bucky closes the tab of the news article on his tablet. He closes his eyes and centers himself cautiously, breathes deeply, counts to ten. He opens his eyes to the darkened bathroom of unit 8. Sheds memories that are useless to dwell upon.

Sorrow has a very distinct sound. It varies from person to person, but Bucky is well versed in its tone, and he can hear it as clearly in silence as he can in tearful sobs. So he hears it in the pensive quiet of Steve’s studies, through several layers of drywall and for several days’ time. He hears Steve’s upset, knows that edge of anger and that tint of confusion. He can parse it from Steve’s strained meals with his mother, and the way Steve minimizes his time in the unit, likely burying himself in the library. At least Steve has the valid excuse of needing to use a computer since the Rogers household has none of its own.

It should be easy to attribute the quiet in unit 10 to busy hospital schedules or busy school schedules, except Bucky knows better. He knows the sounds of Steve’s life, from his morning ablutions, to his chores, to his study habits. He knows that Steve likes to give himself quiet pep-talks after brushing his teeth, little mantras to get him through the school day. He knows that Steve likes to hum along to the radio while washing dishes or folding laundry. He knows that Steve likes to think aloud while working through math problems or committing facts to memory. Bucky knows the soundtrack of Steve’s domesticity, so he cannot unhear the new disconcert of Steve’s life.

Bucky can, however, retreat from the stimuli, even without the aid of a penthouse or expensive soundproofing. Steve does not attempt to knock on Bucky’s door again, likely feeling the echoes of Bucky’s compulsion, but Bucky doesn’t want to be put on the spot. Bucky doesn’t want to perch indecisively by the door, torn between alleviating Steve’s frustration and respecting Alex’s desires. Bucky chooses, instead, to abscond to his bathroom nest.

The bathroom is windowless, small, and dark, but clean. Bucky usually takes great care to preserve the comfort of the space since it serves as both a place to wash his body and a place to sleep. It’s a bit of a hassle to repeatedly transfer the bedding to and from the bathtub, but it’s not like Bucky can shower while standing on blankets, and it’s not like he can rest properly in a basin of hard fiberglass. Likewise, the single bed in the unit is not an option. It is Alex’s bed for when he stays the night, and the windows in the bedroom are a bit too large for Bucky’s needs.

In this little haven Bucky assembled for himself, it is easy to pass time enfolded in soft, worn quilts. The bathroom offers the most insulation from the pervasive sounds of the housing complex, and has a steady fan which can provide excellent white noise to lull Bucky into a doze.     

Empty and endless as Bucky’s days are, he still finds it difficult to keep up with the advance of society. He may have limitless amounts of time to invest in researching, learning, and mastering new skills, but it is that same infinite stretch which hinders Bucky’s progress. He has no deadlines by which activities may be scheduled, and no motivation by which goals may be set. What use does Bucky have for developing new skills or mastering old skills when he has no one to share them with, and no reason to apply them. It is exhausting, and Bucky always ends up immersing himself in the tiny tablet Alex bought for him when he moved into unit 8.

The tablet is both the tiniest and largest window Bucky has into the greater world, and it does little to close the distance Bucky feels growing between himself and the outside. Once an avid reader of news from around the world and articles expounding on wondrous new discoveries, Bucky now has little patience for current events. His preferred articles always seem to wilt in the shadow of more popular articles about human suffering or celebrity gossip, and Bucky is tired.

Bucky is tired and he likes the Netflix account that Alex set up for him. Bucky likes the broad selection of TV shows and movies on Netflix, and he likes how easily his time is consumed. Bucky also likes how his Netflix account is not monitored too closely. At least, it isn’t obviously censored, unlike some search terms.

Bucky would like to learn more about modern technology, about the various cameras and microphones available to everyday households, about how to repair and disable devices. Bucky would like to learn about these advancements, but it is easier not to question, so Bucky does not ask.

Bucky binge watches Netflix in the bathroom, sprawled in the nest of blankets and pillows which fill the tub, one foot kicked up and over the rim, the other foot pressed high on the tiles of the wall. After days locked in with the fan left off, the small room is starting to smell like BO, but Bucky couldn’t care less, head propped against a pillow and tablet wedged onto a nearby ledge. Bucky is comfortable in the dark enclosure of the tiny room, sticky with dried sweat and greasy hair. He has no one to see and no one to impress, what with Alex’s promise to return in a little over a week.

He hasn’t stepped out of the bathroom in several days, and he doesn’t plan to for any reason short of Alex’s return. Alex hates it when Bucky is filthy, so Bucky will have to clear the bedding from the bathtub and then bathe some time before then.

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge his little slip, his moment of weakness, the peek he took at the website of a local news outlet from a neighbouring town. Bucky doesn’t read the news anymore, except sometimes he does, and though Bucky is not actually prescient, he knows the signs and he knows with a sick certainty that unit 8 will not be his home for much longer. The reasons for his relocation might be different this time around, but Bucky will be uprooted all the same. Bucky doesn’t read the news anymore, except sometimes he does, and he should’ve known better because no news is good news.

No news is good news.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I am working on the next chapter. It's almost ready. I just want to add this gif I stumbled upon because this is totally how I imagined Bucky looking in this chapter. 
> 
>  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since my last update, but please enjoy this extra long chapter! 
> 
> In case it's not obvious, I'm not American, and my understanding of insurance and the health system only extends as far as a quick Google search. Please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes that should be fixed.
> 
> Thanks for keeping up with this fic. Comments keep the creative gears motivated!

It is the Wednesday after winter break and Steve is sitting through the first Stand Up Club meeting of the new calendar year.

Steve is already sick of school and homework. He is even a little fed up with Dugan and the others. He knows they mean well, and he knows there's no real reason for his irritation, but that doesn't stop him from feeling the way he feels. Their concern for his well-being and their attempts to cheer him up should improve his mood because these are the things that friends do, and Steve always wanted that kind of companionship. Yet Steve wishes they would just ignore him and he wishes that they weren't so genuinely caring. It would be easier if things returned to the radio silence of the holiday season when everyone was busy with their own families. Steve thinks almost longingly of his quiet Christmas with his ma. The incessant presence of the others makes it difficult for Steve to stew in his dark mood, but a timely cold sours him nicely.

At first, the deepening of his voice seems to be the long awaited onset of puberty, but no dice. Not that Steve wants a face full of acne. He just wants to be done with it since it's inevitable anyway. And maybe, if he's lucky he'll come out the other side better than he went in, though he doesn't have high hopes for that.

No, Steve is familiar with his body and the early symptoms of illness, so he knows his scratchy voice will soon become a fully inflamed sore throat, and his stuffy nose will alternate between running like a faucet and crackling with peeling skin. His mind already feels cloudy and he can't muster the energy to pretend he's paying attention to the proceedings of the club meeting.

Fortunately, Gabe is leading the meeting this time, so Steve knows no one will say anything about Steve staring into space with his head supported on one arm, practically projecting his mental vacancy. It's a relief at the same time it annoys Steve because Steve is sure that Gabe spent hours preparing for the meeting, and here Steve is being blatantly disrespectful. Steve shouldn't get a free pass just because he's a friend. There should be consequences for being a bad friend, and Steve resents the way Dugan, Jim, and Monty cluster around Steve's seat when they should relegate him to the back corner of the room.

The meeting is meant to recount the last term’s fundraisers and inform everybody of the club's progress and future directions. Gabe summarizes the world and local issues the club touched on and outlines some upcoming issues the club would tackle in the new term. Though Gabe is only a freshman and a general member, it is clear that Club President Peggy Carter is grooming him to become the Vice President or at least the Secretary for the next school year.

Peggy, at least, obviously disapproves of Steve's behavior, judging by the narrow eyed look she fixes on Steve while Gabe receives a round of polite applause. With business concluded, Gabe invites club members to commence the little party they'd planned to welcome the new calendar year, and this is met with both a round of applause and a round of backslapping that nearly knocks Gabe into the table of snacks Frenchie set up.

At last Dugan and the others scram, crawling over each other in their haste to get to the table of snacks before it's emptied by other voracious teenaged appetites. Dugan accidentally elbows Steve's head on the way, and Steve is pretty sure Jim purposely steps on Steve's toe, but Steve likes these thoughtless injuries more than he likes the kid gloves they've been handling him with.

Alone at last, Steve is free to rest his face fully on the desk he's seated at, barely sparing a thought for the myriad of bacteria that must thrive on its surface. The surface feels especially cool against his overheated cheek, and it makes the loud chatter around him more bearable to overhear. Strangely, though, it’s the hushed whispering behind Steve that grabs his attention more than the loud chatter by the refreshments.

“Oh, fuck, gross, why’d you take a picture?”

“It’s just nature. Calm down.”

Steve peeks under his arm to see that a rumpled-looking boy and a blonde girl are seated in the corner of the room, a couple of rows behind him. Steve can’t remember their names though he was introduced to everyone in Stand Up Club on his first day, but he knows that they have irregular attendance and the boy has a pet dog. Steve makes a point to never sit near Dog-boy during meetings since the dog hair makes Steve’s allergies act up in fits of explosive and disruptive sneezing.   

The blonde is showing Dog-boy something on her phone, much to the boy’s horror if his face is any indication. “God, I’m going to be sick.”

The blonde snorts. “Weak.”

Dog-boy scowls. “I am allowed to be grossed out, okay? That is _not_ natural,” he whines. “Why the hell’d you take a _picture_ of it?”

“Haven’t you ever seen a nature documentary?” The blonde shrugs. “I thought it was kinda neat. If my phone had enough memory for a video, I could’ve been David Attenborough.”

“No, you’re just psychotic. Whatever animal did… _this_ , is not a healthy, sane animal. And you took this in the park? I fuckin’ live across from the park. _Why did you show me?_ ” the boy groans into the palm he lays over his face.  

“It’s just a squirrel--”

“That’s been _burst_.” The boy peeks back at the girl’s phone from between his fingers. “Awwwuughhh-- it’s like an exploded _juice pack_. I can’t take it. I’m going to the bathroom. Or home. _Not_ through the park. Thanks a lot.”

Dog-boy shoots to his feet, scooping up his bag before dashing to the door. The blonde follows closely, alternating between apologies and taunts about Dog-boy being a ‘big baby.’

The scrape of the chair next to Steve’s seat draws Steve’s attention back to his immediate surroundings. He tilts his head on his arms so he can see who’d rather sit with him than enjoy some free food and is surprised by no less than Peggy Carter.

The curl of Peggy’s short hair around her cheeks does nothing to soften the look she levels at Steve, and her dark lipstick only enunciates the thin, displeased line of her mouth. Peggy takes the time to smooth the pleats of her long skirt before clasping her hands on the desk by Steve’s elbow. Her eyes flick from Steve’s undoubtedly waxen complexion to the knobby slump of his spine, and though her gaze remains cool, Steve can feel his shirt growing damp with nervous sweat.

“You don’t look well,” Peggy observes pointedly.

Steve straightens up in his seat, angling himself to face Peggy properly. “It’s nothing,” he says, managing a level voice despite the combination of nerves and cold symptoms. Peggy makes the effort to make every club member feel welcome and valued, but as President of Stand Up Club and Treasurer of the Student Council, Peggy is an understandably busy person. Not one to sit back and delegate work, Peggy is always found right in the thick of things, so Steve has only spoken to her a handful of times. He doesn’t know what merits her attention now, unless she’s preparing to tear him a new one for disrespecting Gabe.

“I’m sure,” Peggy says dryly. Her crisp accent makes Steve think of the thick cardstock sold in art stores. That rich, heavy paper that he can’t afford. “I’ve been watching you, Steve.”

“Watching… me,” Steve says uncertainly. He glances over Peggy’s shoulder. Dugan and Frenchie are engaged in some sort of contest that involves stuffing their faces with marshmallows. Jim, Gabe, Monty, and most other club members ring the spectacle and enthusiastically egg the participants on.

Steve looks back to Peggy. The corner of Peggy’s mouth tilts up in amusement. “I notice when the club receives a promising new addition.”

“That’s-- very nice of you to say, but--”

“You’ve done more for this club in a month than some members have done in two years,” Peggy smoothly interjects. “No need for modesty. You go above and beyond to advertise our events, and put in the most hours helping with prep and clean-up, whether or not you’re scheduled to assist.”

“I’m just doing my part,” Steve insists.

“And a fine job you’ve done,” Peggy allows. “Most would pat themselves on the back for making it to a club meeting. Some only attend our food bank or soup kitchen days to fill community service hours. You, on the other hand, have a genuine dedication that I’d like to put to further use.”

Steve shakes his head, not sure he likes the direction of the conversation. “You tryin’ to recruit me or something? I’m already in your club.”

“I’d like to recruit you to the core team,” Peggy says.  

Steve frowns. “But what about Gabe?”

Peggy laughs. The corners of her eyes crinkle with it, creasing the perfect wings of her eyeliner. “There’s more than enough work to go around, and plenty of titles to match. Not to mention the high turnover rate of a student population. Some of us do plan to graduate, you know.”

Steve blushes, the blood rushing to his cheeks so quickly he’s nearly dizzy with it. His mind feels cottony and he must be more ill than he realized. “But I-- What do you-- What will I--?”

This time, Peggy’s smile is full and beautiful. “I see potential in you, Steve,” she confides, “leadership potential.”

“That’s-- that’s ridiculous!” Steve’s voice goes embarrassingly high.

“So you say. Yet the best of my club gravitates towards you,” Peggy says.

Steve gapes at Peggy and feels even stupider for the way his face must look with his jaw hanging. “They just feel bad for me. I’m-- I’m no leader,” he says.

“Give them more credit than that,” Peggy admonishes, “and I didn’t say you were a leader-- just that you could be.”

Steve looks down at his hands where they grip the edge of his desk. His knuckles look arthritic and swollen alongside the toothpick lengths of his fingers. His veins are dark and raised; frightening to inspect for too long. So Steve looks at the rough edges of his sweater, the way the woolen sleeves bunch at his bony elbows. The way his pants are barely held up by his belt. His boots oversized and ungainly on his duck feet.

“You could be,” Peggy repeats quietly, drawing Steve’s gaze back to her piercing brown eyes. “Only, you need to take better care of yourself first.”

Steve opens his mouth to say-- something. About how he’s fine; this is how he is and always will be; it’s none of her business anyway.

Peggy sighs, effectively silencing Steve before he’s spoken. “Go home, Steve. Rest. Next time you’re feeling under the weather, don’t force yourself to attend an extracurricular meeting. It does no one any good.”

With that, Peggy rises gracefully to her feet and smoothly merges with the revelry of the club members clustered around the room. Steve is left sitting dumbly on his own, mind swirling with Peggy’s unexpected input. While Steve can’t say that Peggy’s talk has galvanized him into action, Steve definitely feels too restless to stay a minute longer in the small classroom. With a last peek to confirm that yes, the others are still occupied with eating contests-- Twizzlers now-- Steve quietly leaves with his coat and knapsack in hand.

Steve pays little attention to his surroundings as he makes his way home, only lifting his head to absently check the roads before crossing. For the most part, he watches his boots drag through the slushy sidewalks. He watches his breath mist in the cold air and feels the humidity of it quickly frost on the fine hairs of his face. The wintry air is hard on his lungs, but he still enjoys the sharp scent of it, even as it chills further with the quick retreat of the setting sun.

The days are so short now. By the time Steve reaches his housing complex, the streetlights are already coming on. The sky is dark and streaked with clouds. The barren trees are silhouettes and shadows, the horizon a thin blade of light. The sidewalks are grey slush, but the snow of the yard is a white, untouched sheet.

The scenery is striking. Only a few weeks ago he’d stood by Bucky’s side looking out at much the same sight. The sudden thought makes Steve-- reckless.

Steve doesn’t think. He jogs around to the back of the housing complex. He counts the windows along the back and estimates where his own unit is. He peeks in through the dark window to confirm that he has the correct unit. The view of his old sofa assures him of his location, so he drops his knapsack carelessly against the brick wall and rifles through its contents until he surfaces with the sturdy metal ruler he uses in Art.

Then Steve strides over to the window of the neighbouring unit.

Unsurprisingly, all of the windows to unit 8 are dark, without even a faint glow to give sign of any activity hidden in the depths of the residence. The window Steve approaches looks into the living room, and Steve can just make out the shape of a single armchair paired with a standing lamp in the gloom. Maybe the sense of vacancy should be a deterrent as the law and propriety definitely are, but there is little more than a nagging unease at the back of Steve’s mind as he wedges the edge of his metal ruler along the window frame.

All the windows in the housing complex are old and drafty, making Steve’s work easier as he forces the ruler through the thin gap between the edge of the window pane and its frame. Steve leans his weight into the ruler, sliding it painstakingly along the seam of the window in search of the latch keeping the window closed. It is the first time Steve puts theory into practice, but Brooklyn evenings spent in the company of eccentric old neighbours have prepared Steve. Hours spent listening to half-mad tales of war and espionage pay off, and Steve silently thanks old Mr. Smith from down the hall when Steve finally manages to nudge the window latch open using the ruler.

The latch turns stiffly and Steve’s ruler is probably permanently warped, but Steve can draw straight lines just fine without it. Besides the scrape of the metal ruler against the wooden frame as he withdraws it, the pane slides open noiselessly and Steve feels a crazed sort of accomplishment tingle across his skin. He discards his bent ruler in the snow beneath the window and only winces a little at the shower of paint chips that follow. Then Steve braces his hands on the window sill and jumps up to push his weight over the edge and into the room beyond.

The motion does not go as smoothly as Steve intends. Rather than vaulting gracefully into the living room of number 8, Steve ends up folded over the window sill, the top half of his body slumped forward while his lower half dangles embarrassingly outside. Lacking the upper-body strength-- or really any strength at all-- Steve resorts to digging his toes into the outer wall in search of footholds to help him up. Through a combination of kicking and squirming, Steve manages to worm his way high enough to brace his knees on the window sill so he can spare himself the indignity of tumbling head first into the laminate flooring of Bucky’s living room.

Sitting in the window, Steve takes a moment to catch his breath, thankful that he is alone as he smothers a cough in the crook of his bony shoulder. It’s pathetic, how difficult it is for Steve to climb through a window on the ground floor. He shakes a bit from the exertion, but he feels more energized than he has in days, his little stunt bringing a flush to his cheeks and heat to his extremities. Steve’s breath puffs out in great, steamy clouds, and sweat mats the lank strands of his hair to his forehead. The feeling of hair clumped to his face is uncomfortable, and Steve combs it back with clumsy fingers as he wonders if he should leave his boots outside to enter barefoot. His boots are crusted with slush and salt, and Steve doesn’t want to track it into Bucky’s home.  

“What the fuck.” The rough voice interrupts Steve’s musing and he nearly falls back through the window.

Steve grips the window frame with white knuckles to steady himself. His eyes sweep the gloom, looking for the source of the voice, only moderately comforted by the fact that he recognizes it as Bucky’s.

“Unbelievable,” Bucky says in Steve’s ear, sending another bolt of surprise shocking through Steve. He could’ve sworn Bucky’s voice had been farther. Steve snaps his head to his left and finds Bucky leaning against the wall next to the window. Bucky blends nearly seamlessly with the deep shadows of the room. Only the glimmer of Bucky’s eyes give away his position, preternaturally pale and almost luminescent in the dark.

Bucky leans closer to Steve, letting the faint glow of the courtyard lamps highlight the angular planes of his face. Like this, Steve can clearly see Bucky’s incredulous expression. “Are you fucked in the head?”

Steve hopes with a desperate mortification that Bucky hasn’t been standing in the room the whole time. Steve says, “This isn’t what it looks like--”

Bucky snorts inelegantly. “Oh really? Cause it _looks like_ you’re breaking into my apartment. And it looks like you’re sitting on my goddamned window sill, wondering if it’d be rude to break into my apartment with your _boots on_.”  

Steve blinks. “Well-- would it?” Bucky frowns in confusion. Steve hesitates to clarify. Steve says, haltingly, “Would it-- be rude? Should I-- take my-- should I take my boots off?”

Bucky stares at Steve in disbelief, then throws his hands up in exasperation. “ _‘Should I take my boots off?’_ he says. You’re a real piece of work, Rogers.” Bucky drags a hand over his face and rubs tiredly at his eyes. Bucky doesn’t look at Steve, but Steve’s pitiful state is probably observable from space because Bucky sighs and steps back to flip the floor lamp on. “Yeah, take off your goddamned boots and get your ass in here. Close the window, will ya? It’s cold as balls already without having the window thrown wide open. And the window better not be busted, or I swear to God, Steve--”

“Bucky?” Steve asks, unable to temper his shock.

Bucky freezes where he stands, the sudden tension in his muscles enunciating the bony points of his shoulders beneath his usual black hoodie. Bucky’s hair is greasy and unwashed. His waxen complexion is unrelated to the sickly lighting of the lamp. The hollows of Bucky’s eyes are sunken and purple, and the wild-eyed look Bucky directs at Steve is made more unsettling because it’s red-rimmed, like Bucky’s been crying or sleepless for days. Still, the most startling feature is Bucky’s stubble. It sharpens Bucky’s jaw line dramatically. It makes Bucky look-- older.

“What?” Bucky asks cautiously. Bucky’s tongue twitches out to lick nervously at his lips like he’s worried about food residue.

“You have a beard… sort of,” Steve says, tracking the motion of Bucky’s tongue.

Bucky doesn’t react immediately. “Yeah.” Bucky straightens up, though Steve doesn’t know when exactly Bucky must’ve hunched defensively inwards. Then the corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up in a vain smirk. “I look good, don’t I? Jealous?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Such a good-looking jerk.”

“The best,” Steve agrees solemnly.

They smile at each other, small and tentative, but genuine. Then Steve starts coughing.

“Jesus Christ, get in here already, you punk. I don’t care where you put your boots.” Bucky hurries forward to help Steve down from the window sill, and Steve barely has the time to kick his boots off into the snow outside before Bucky is scooping Steve into his arms and lowering him into the only armchair.

Steve is too busy cramping with the force of his coughs to protest Bucky’s manhandling, but Steve hears the clack of the window as it’s slammed shut and he feels the cessation of the cold breeze he’d been ignoring. When Bucky crowds anxiously into Steve’s space, Steve kicks Bucky firmly in the ribs, warding off Bucky’s fretful hands. Steve continues to cough with increasing intensity, but he has had worse coughing fits than this and his inhaler is in his pocket if he needs it. Still, Bucky looks at Steve like Steve’s regurgitating his own lungs. Steve manages to roll his eyes while coughing.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve croaks once he can handle a full breath.  

Bucky looks almost scandalized.

Steve grimaces. “Just-- if you have some water?”

Bucky opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but thinks better of it; instead, he turns to stride into the kitchen. The unit is small, and the open plan leaves the kitchen visible from the living room, so Steve stays slumped in the overstuffed armchair as he watches Bucky pull down a glass from a kitchen cabinet. Bucky pauses with the glass held under the tap of the kitchen sink, and Steve catches Bucky’s eye as Bucky glances up at Steve. Bucky’s hand is poised to turn on the tap.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Steve finally says. His words come out flat. He can’t find any of his earlier anger, none of the irritation that’s been scratching under his skin for days. Not when Steve sits sprawled where Bucky deposited him, carefully placed on the only chair in the living room. Not when Bucky looks like a shade of himself, purposefully distant with the kitchen island placed firmly between them.

“Straight to it, huh,” Bucky sighs.

“You know me--”

“Yeah, never taking the easy way out.”

“It’s not easier.” Steve frowns. “I don’t like not knowing what’s been happening. You look--” Steve shakes his head. Squints like that’ll help bring Bucky into focus. “You look awful and I’ve been worried. Pissed also, but mostly worried.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Worried? About what? Finding a date for the winter formal?”

Steve exhales through his nose. “No.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s face softens. “You’ve been worried about me.”

Steve nods.

“Well, don’t. Look at me. You think I’m going to have trouble finding dates? I gotta beat the hordes back with sticks--”

“ _Bucky_ \--”

“No, don’t _Bucky_ me, _Steve_.” Bucky whips the glass he’s holding into the sink. The glass explodes. A cut opens on Bucky’s cheek. The sounds of shards skittering in the sink seem louder than the initial impact. Steve’s throat is tight and his eyes feel peeled open. “Who _the fuck_ do you think you are?”

“I--”

“It’s not enough for you to break into my apartment, you gotta stick your nose into my business like you’ve got some kinda _right_ to it, like I owe you some sorta explanation.” Bucky doesn’t shout, but it’s a near thing. Bucky trembles with the force of the words tumbling from his mouth. The cut on his cheek bleeds with the contortions of his face. “I’ve only known you for a _month_ , Steve. Less than that if you actually tally up the hours we’ve spent hanging out. I don’t owe you shit, so open your goddamned eyes.”

Steve’s eyes are already open; dry and wide with the adrenaline jolt from Bucky’s outburst. Steve forces his eyes to blink. Forces his constricted airways to loosen. Plants his socked feet on the ground and pushes up out of the armchair. Steve stands uncertainly, but only for the space of a heartbeat. He rocks his weight back before taking a decisive step forward. “Buck,” Steve tries softly. Not like he’s trying to soothe a frenzied animal. Bucky’s face is smeared in the likeness of a predator, but his hand is clenched in a bloodied curl on the counter. Bucky is angry, but it’s not Steve that he hurt.

Blood traces a furrow by Bucky’s lips as his expression crumples. “Reckless. You’re just too fuckin’ reckless, Stevie.”

“Buck--”

Bucky shakes his head and stares unseeingly into the kitchen sink. His hair hangs tangled and unkempt, the ends by his chin clumped with blood. “Following some weird, reclusive asshole at all hours of the night. Gettin’ up in some guy’s face for littering outside a McDonald’s. Giving kids shit for trying to sneak into a theater without paying. Fuckin’ B&E,” Bucky laughs unhappily, “and then freaking approaching the guy who just lost it in the middle of a kitchen.”

“Bucky…” Steve says, lacking anything else to fill the wake of Bucky’s words.

Bucky doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t resist as Steve guides him gently away from the sink, sidestepping the visible shards of glass on the floor. Steve seats Bucky in one of the two chairs crowded around a tiny kitchen table, sparing a thought for how weirdly empty the apartment is, but mostly concerned with Bucky’s unresponsive demeanor. Bucky’s gaze has turned inwards, and he doesn’t even twitch when Steve calls his name.

Steve takes deep, even breaths and wills his heartbeat to remain steady. Steve’s been punched, kicked, thrown in trash cans, and cornered in alleys-- sometimes all in one day. He’s been on the receiving end of physical and verbal assaults, and he’s intercepted such situations on the behalf of others and reaped the consequences of the negative attention. Steve has been to the hospital for medical reasons too many times, and he’s been on his deathbed more than once. In each of those situations, Steve has always been fueled by a bitter anger born of frustrated helplessness. None of those situations left Steve with this tight, panicky sensation coiling in his chest.   

That constant, simmering anger is extinguished, much like his earlier frustration with Bucky’s avoidance. Faced with the wounded vacancy of Bucky’s eyes, there is no space for anything but the present moment. Right now, it doesn’t matter what conditions led to Bucky’s outburst. Right now, it doesn’t matter if blame should be laid on the world at large, or on a single individual, or on Steve himself. Right now, there is no one to lash out at. Bucky needs help-- but it is a type of help that Steve has little experience giving.

More than ever, Steve admires his ma’s strength, and hopes he inherited more than his blond hair from her as he forms a plan of action.

Steve’s not sure how welcome his touch is, and he’d rather not upset Bucky further by being presumptuous in Bucky’s personal space, so he takes care of the hazardous mess first. Most of the damage is localized in the kitchen sink, so it’s easy enough to clean up. The fluorescent lights flicker to life overhead at Steve’s command, letting Steve identify the few shards that ricocheted out of the sink.

In search of a dustpan, Steve checks all of the kitchen cabinets where one might be stored, but finds literally nothing besides two sets of dinnerware and cleaning products, so Steve expands his search to the closet by the front door. Conveniently, a broom with a dustpan clipped to it tumbles out of the front closet as soon as Steve cracks it open, saving him from having to rummage in the dark since it seems most of Bucky’s light fixtures are in need of replacing.

Dustpan in hand, Steve hurriedly sweeps up the glass from the floor, wondering if he should’ve tended to Bucky’s wounds first, but worried that Bucky might step on the debris while in his distracted state. Steve makes quick work of the glass in the sink as well, and soon the glass shards are bound neatly in a couple layers of the plastic bags Steve found under the kitchen sink. He knows he should use newspaper or something, but it will do for the moment.   

The lacerations in Bucky’s skin, however, still need to be dealt with, so Steve heads to the bathroom to check for a first aid kit.

The bathroom is located at the front of the short hallway that leads to the bedrooms and Steve has an eerie moment of deja vu. Of course, it’s just because these floor plans match with those of his own unit. The experience is uncanny in its mirror image, in the unfamiliar shadows that seem to obtain a depth never found in Steve’s own home. Even with all of the doors closed, Steve easily finds the bathroom on the first try, but no lights come on when Steve flips the switch. The bathroom is windowless and the darkness inside is almost solid. Steve is left to navigate the dark room based on transcribed memory and the slight gleam of bathroom fixtures reflecting the lamp light from the living room.

It takes a moment for the smell to hit him. Steve is a little grossed out until he involuntarily takes another whiff and it becomes clear to him that the smell is not a typical bathroom scent. It’s muted and metallic like a handful of pennies in his palm. Steve doesn’t know what the smell is from, but it doesn’t matter.

Steve gropes his way forward in the dark until he reaches the bathroom sink. From there, he reaches up to find the mirror and the medicine cabinet, but his hand connects with an unexpected object resting on the bathroom counter. Steve winces as the object clatters to the tiled floor, then he stoops to retrieve the fallen object. He can just make out the shape of the rectangular container. When he picks it up, the handle and the pebbled texture of the plastic exterior tell him it’s a cooler. The lid hangs open, and there is nothing inside.

Steve returns the cooler to its place on the counter. The mirror is easy enough to see as it catches more of the living room lamp light than anything else in the bathroom, so Steve is able to access the medicine cabinet behind it without further mishap. The first aid kit is right where Steve expects it to be, and Steve pulls it down with a measure of relief. Then Steve closes the medicine cabinet, turns on his heel, and walks right into Bucky.

“Crap!” Steve fumbles the first aid kit and his flailing elbow knocks the cooler into the bathtub where it lands with a strange, softened thud. “Holy crap, Buck. Stop sneaking up on me. It’s not funny.” Steve retrieves the first aid kit from where it fell, but decides to leave the cooler. It’s empty, anyway, and there are more pressing matters. When he straightens, Bucky still hasn’t responded, standing silhouetted in the doorway of the bathroom. Steve can’t see Bucky’s face, but he can see the drop of blood that patters onto the floor from Bucky’s fingertip.   

“Come on,” Steve says, pushing gently at the center of Bucky’s chest. “You seriously need to get your lights fixed. I’ve got the first aid kit, so we’ll get you cleaned up in the kitchen.”

From this close, Steve can hear Bucky’s shallow breathing, and the anxiety Steve’s been holding back threatens to bubble to the surface. “Bucky,” Steve says firmly, pushing more insistently on Bucky’s chest.

It’s like pressing on a wall. Bucky is always animated. Pacing or kicking his feet up on the swings. Hair waving with the motion of his body. Lips twisting or thinning, puckering or pouting and expressing more than any words that bypass their seal. Bucky is fluid even in stillness, and this immobility is--

Finally, Bucky steps back, and the space around Steve seems to expand exponentially. Steve inhales deeply, not sure when he became short of breath. Steve is not claustrophobic, but a weight lifts off of him when he exits the cramped space of the bathroom, Bucky shuffling ahead of him. Steve ignores the discomfort in his chest. It’s just anxiety. Just nerves. Playing nurse is more stressful than Steve thought it would be. Not that he ever thought his ma’s job was easy.

At least the kitchen light isn’t broken, providing much needed illumination in the gloomy apartment. Steve washes his own hands, and then sends Bucky to the kitchen sink to rinse off his wounds while Steve examines the first aid kit.

The kit is as basic as they come: an assortment of adhesive bandages, a few packets of antiseptic wipes, and a small roll of gauze. Steve is familiar with the supplies, both because his ma is a nurse, and because he’s secretly patched himself up a few too many times. Yet, if the lacerations in Bucky’s hand are as serious as Steve suspects they are, they’ll have to go to the hospital, and Steve doesn’t know how he’ll get Bucky there when he doesn’t have a car or enough money for a taxi. They certainly can’t walk the distance with Bucky in a stupor, and based on his housing, Steve doubts Bucky is adequately insured. Steve doesn’t know the specifics of Bucky’s living situation, but the cost of a couple stitches, let alone an ambulance ride, could be crippling. As much as Steve would be willing to pay for Bucky’s care, Steve doesn’t have an income, and he can’t ask his ma to shoulder the financial burden for his friend.

Steve is pulled from his thoughts when he hears the water shut off. Bucky remains standing by the sink, back to Steve, so Steve approaches cautiously so as not to startle Bucky. It’s a bit like trying to tap a stranger on the shoulder. Bucky’s not a stranger, but he just looks-- different. Maybe it’s the flicker of the fluorescent lights, or the narrow space of the kitchen. Bucky looks taller, even hunched. His shoulders seem broader. Familiar sharp angles edge his baggy black hoodie, but there’s also the pronounced curve of a bicep in the sleeve; a thickening in the musculature of the denim clad thigh. Steve’s never seen Bucky in full light.  

Before Steve’s hand even reaches Bucky, Bucky tilts his head to regard Steve.

Bucky’s gaze is unexpectedly lucid, his numb passivity replaced with a resigned vigilance. Bucky watches Steve, and Steve thinks Bucky must be looking for some kind of reaction, some sign of how things will progress from here. Whatever Bucky anticipates, Steve is glad to disappoint him, because Steve has no intention of bailing out on him.

“C’mere,” Steve says, gesturing for Bucky to retake his seat at the kitchen table. “Let me have a look.”

Bucky shuffles warily to his seat, bare feet dragging over the tile in a way that makes Steve glad he swept the floor first. Bucky falls heavily into his seat, but obeys when Steve asks him to lay his injured hand on the table for inspection.

It’s as bad as Steve feared. Maybe worse. Even after rinsing, there’s a lot of blood. Steve’s stomach rolls queasily at the sight of it. Steve’s never had a problem with blood before, but this is a night full of firsts. Bucky’s left hand is covered in a number of superficial cuts which Steve could easily deal with, but the large shard of glass embedded in the fleshy base of Bucky’s thumb is beyond him. Steve doesn’t know how Bucky isn’t bawling like a baby.

“Shit,” Steve curses. Bucky blinks. Steve finds it in himself to smile. So much for Bucky’s jokes about Steve being a squeaky-clean boy scout.

The humour in the situation is short-lived, though. Steve doesn’t want to risk removing the shard on his own. Everything he knows about first aid is self-taught or learned from his ma, and he has no practical experience or training. It’s one thing to put theory into practice on breaking in through a window; there’s no way Steve is going to practice medicine on his friend when he knows one wrong move could permanently fuck up Bucky’s hand.

“I’m fine,” Bucky croaks, and it’s Steve’s turn to shoot Bucky a look of disbelief. Bucky hasn’t lost his guarded bearing-- still watching Steve with animal intensity-- but he cracks a self-deprecating smile. “God, I’m such a hypocrite. Fucking up my hand while calling you reckless.”

A part of Steve untwists at Bucky’s words, relaxing at the reappearance of Bucky’s usual attitude. “I wouldn’t describe what you did as ‘reckless,’” Steve disagrees. “More like ‘impulsive’ or ‘stupid-as-hell,’ but not ‘reckless.’”

“Thanks,” Bucky says dryly.

“Wasn’t meant to be a compliment, but we can get your oversized ego looked at too when we get to the hospital.”

Bucky draws his hand back so quickly that Steve fears the glass might’ve embedded deeper. “No hospital.”

Steve runs a hand through his sweaty bangs. His nerves are frayed and his head is starting to pound and he thinks he’s been keeping it together rather admirably for the past half hour, but everyone has their limits. Steve just doesn’t know what else to do. “Look, your hand’s a mess. It can’t be fixed at home, and if you don’t get it looked at, it’ll only get worse.”

Bucky shakes his head adamantly. “It’ll be fine. I heal fast.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t care. I ain’t going to no hospital.”

“Bucky, please--”

“I said _no_ , Steve.” Bucky crosses his arms gingerly, and no amount of facial hair can make his sulking look less petulant.

What little patience Steve has is running thin and he damn near wants to growl. “This isn’t something that can be fixed in your kitchen with a needle and a bottle of vodka, Bucky. Neither of which you seem to have, anyway.”

Bucky nods imperiously at the first aid kit on the table. “Aren’t those antiseptic wipes right there?”

“Do you have a needle and thread?”

Bucky glares at the tabletop. “No.”

“You don’t even have tweezers in this kit,” Steve points out.

“I can probably just pull it out with my fingers--”

“Bucky!” Steve finally explodes, appalled at the idea. “We’re going to the hospital!”

Bucky glowers and opens his mouth to argue more, but Steve doesn’t let him. “Please, Buck. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry.” Steve exhales shakily. “I set you off by stepping where I wasn’t welcome, and I know I’m doing it again, but I-- I won’t bother you anymore after this, if that’s what you want. Just let me take you to the hospital. I can get my ma to look at it, and I’ll-- I just need to make sure you’re okay. Please.”

Bucky closes his mouth and leans back in his chair wordlessly, then shakes his head.

Steve’s eyes start to burn. It’s been a rollercoaster, and he’s tired, and kind of sick, and he doesn’t know what he was thinking, barging in uninvited. And now Bucky’s hurt, and looking at him like--

“Fuck, how are you fourteen, kid?” Bucky sighs.

“Kid? I’m actually fifteen. I turn sixteen in July,” Steve says, struggling to keep his voice level. “I got held back a year.”

“Whatever, you’re still like hundreds of years younger than me.” Steve wants to take offense at that, but Bucky continues, “And you’re better than I am at keeping it together.”

“I dunno about that,” Steve says, “but you could be getting senile.” He discreetly leans his head back to keep any tears from forming at his lashline. Steve doesn’t want to prove Bucky wrong seconds after receiving a compliment of sorts from him.

Bucky lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll go to the hospital.”

Steve isn’t sure he heard Bucky correctly, but Bucky stands up, keeping his arms crossed defensively, almost as if he’s cradling his injured hand to his chest rather than trying to bar Steve’s presence.

Steve hurries to his feet when Bucky tosses his hair dramatically. “Are we going or not, Rogers?”

“Yeah, let me just--” Steve tears open one of the antiseptic wipes. Bucky’s face is still bloodied, and Steve needs to do something about it even if he can’t help with Bucky’s hand. Bucky doesn’t dodge in time, and Steve captures Bucky’s face with one hand, holding it still while he uses the other to dab gently at Bucky’s cheek.

Steve is mindful of his proximity to Bucky’s injured hand as he meticulously wipes away the blood on Bucky’s cheek. Some of it is crusted in the facial hair Bucky’s so proud of which makes it more difficult to clean, but with a few swipes, Steve reveals the clear, pale skin beneath.

It’s a little distracting, standing this close to Bucky. Touching Bucky’s face. The rough scrape of stubbled jaw contrasts strangely with the soft skin of Bucky’s cheek. Steve’s palm feels incredibly warm where it’s pressed, and Steve smells the muted metallic scent of blood, but underneath that, the scent of something-- soothing. Addictively calming in a visceral and inexplicable way. Bucky looks different in full light, but this-- this is familiar even when it’s new.

Steve doesn’t realize how distracted he’s become until Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder to keep Steve from overbalancing, standing as he is on his toes to get a good view of Bucky’s cheek. Steve drops his weight back on his heels. He flattens his feet on the floor and avoids Bucky’s eyes. “There. Now you look a little bit less like a serial killer.”

“Nah, a good killer always has a clean face. I would know,” Bucky deadpans.

“Yeah, yeah, you lady killer,” Steve snorts, bringing his eyes back up from the ground. He doesn’t quite make it to Bucky’s face, instead observing Bucky’s pale neck, senselessly searching for a necklace of red injuries though Steve knows Bucky’s throat is unmarked.

If Bucky notices Steve’s improper attention, he doesn’t give any sign. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

“Right.” Steve nods, leading the way to the front door. “And don’t forget shoes, Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbles behind Steve as Steve slips his feet into his shoes beside the door.

By the time Steve unlocks the front door, Bucky has stomped his feet into a pair boots and pulled his arm through one sleeve of a coat. Bucky’s left arm remains folded against his chest, so the rest of the coat acts more like a cloak, but at least Bucky won’t completely freeze outside.

“So how are we getting to the hospital?” Bucky asks as he closes the front door behind them.

Steve frowns at the door. “Aren’t you going to lock that?”

Bucky shrugs. “There ain’t nothing worth stealing in there. But… you’re only fifteen. You can’t drive. Are we walking to the goddamned hospital?”

“Um,” Steve begins sheepishly, “yeah.” They don’t have other options. At least Bucky has snapped back to his senses.

“Of course,” Bucky gripes, but he doesn’t hesitate to follow Steve out of the housing complex and into the night. “Make the injured guy trek through sub-zero temperatures.”

Steve grins up at Bucky’s scowl, at Bucky’s flushed cheeks and bird’s-nest hair lit orange under the streetlights. “Buck up, Buck. We’ve walked farther distances than this.”

Bucky shoots Steve the dirtiest look, and Steve laughs, feeling suddenly light now that they’re moving forward. “I think I deserve a bit of sympathy for this,” Bucky gestures theatrically with his injured hand.

“No one made you smash that glass,” Steve says as he walks abreast of Bucky, happy to smooth out the tension of the evening with some lightly mocking humour. “But, okay, so I-- can be reckless, but I do think, y’know.”

Bucky ducks under a branch that hangs low over the sidewalk. “Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yes, in fact, I’m thinking right now,” Steve agrees. “I’m thinking about how your arm’s wasted on kitchen sinks when the school’s baseball team is such crap. And I’m thinking about how the hordes are gonna faint when they see the rugged new addition to your face. And I’m thinking--” Steve glances at Bucky’s hand where it’s curled carefully against his belly. “I’m sorry for-- for upsetting you. And for going into your home without your permission. But I won’t apologize for wanting to know more about your life, and I certainly won’t apologize for caring about how you’re doing. I know it’s only been like a month… but you’re-- you’re my friend, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a couple of streets and Steve’s mood dips lower as the time lengthens. It’s not easy to be honest, but Bucky’s right that Steve’s not one to take the easy path. It just happens that the hard path is all Steve knows.

Steve’s preparing to reiterate his promise to leave Bucky alone after they’re done at the hospital when Bucky finally speaks. “Yeah.”

Steve looks at Bucky questioningly, and Bucky reluctantly clarifies. “Yeah, I-- I am your… friend. We’re-- friends. And you don’t have to apologize for this, really. I mean, yeah you shouldn’t be breaking into my place, but that’s not what got me all worked up, and this,” Bucky waves his injured hand, “is definitely no one’s fault but my own.”

Steve doesn’t really believe that, though. Sure, Bucky technically smashed the glass that cut his hand, but Steve’s never seen him behave like that before. Bucky can be coarse and abrasive, and Bucky can be sweet and shy, but Bucky is always, always controlled. No matter how excited Bucky becomes, Bucky never really lets himself go, never loses that last thread which deadens the shine in his eyes and muzzles the words on his lips. Control like that doesn’t slip on its own.

The memory of the man in the great coat comes unbidden to Steve’s mind. That man-- Bucky’s father, likely-- and the way Bucky had snapped so quickly to his side. Not in the eager way loving family members greeted each other after a long absence. Just quickly. As if by unspoken command. It’s off. Off in the way Bucky’s empty apartment is. Though there was no time to get a good look at the place, its impersonal nature was immediately evident, and it’s easy to visualize a man with silvered hair and an impeccable suit looming with an air of unsettling civility.

Steve-- is concerned, to put it mildly. The feeling is gut-deep, and Steve trusts his gut just as he trusts his judgement of a person’s character. Earlier, his attention may have been focused solely on Bucky’s immediate health, but the crisis is mostly past, and it’s time for other considerations. Steve may have little experience in the capacity of a healer, but Steve certainly excels in more aggressive roles.

“Bucky,” Steve starts, looking for the most tactful way to ask if Bucky’s dad is a negligent asshole. He’s interrupted by obnoxious honking and the growl of a fast approaching vehicle.

Steve turns an annoyed glare on the battered pick-up truck that swerves on the empty street to pull up haphazardly alongside them. He locks his eyes on Dugan’s inquisitive face as the driver’s side window rolls down to reveal his usual bowler hat and toothy grin. “Steve!” Dugan bellows delightedly as he shifts his truck into park, the volume of the car abating to a low grumble. “You snuck out of the meeting. Missed some damn good cake, too. D’ya need a lift…” Dugan trails off as he gets a good look at Bucky.

Steve recalls Dugan’s superstitious chat from before the winter break, but it doesn’t stop him from tugging Bucky around to the passenger side of the truck. If anything, Dugan’s dubious regard for Bucky only makes Steve more determined to put Bucky in Dugan’s good graces.

Steve pushes Bucky into the truck and forces him to slide across the bench seat until there’s only a narrow cushion of air between Bucky and Dugan. Then Steve climbs in and slams the passenger door closed. “Thanks for offering, Dugan. We could use a lift to the hospital,” Steve says. Casually, Steve adds, “Oh, and this is my friend Bucky.”  

Bucky says, “Hi,” waving his injured hand awkwardly in greeting. Dugan responds in kind, eyeing Bucky’s sluggishly bleeding hand nervously. Both Bucky and Dugan surreptitiously try to make eye contact with Steve, but Steve stares pointedly out the windshield.

Steve says, “You’re on the wrong side of the road, Dugan.” The street is empty, but Steve would rather not risk getting T-boned.

Speechless for once, Dugan is quick to put the truck into gear and guide it back onto the correct side of the road. Via car, the hospital is only 5 more minutes away, and Steve leans back into the creaky leather upholstery, relieved that Bucky will soon be in hands far more capable than his own.

Due to either the presence of an injured passenger or the presence of an object of superstition, Dugan’s driving is much smoother this time around and Steve can hardly believe he’s sitting in the same junker. Dugan keeps his eyes on the road and his hands at ten and two on the wheel. Bucky sits slumped in his seat, hand propped on his belly and coat pulled around him like a blanket. Steve is a little worried about the glassy look to Bucky’s half-lidded eyes, but as much as it burns Steve to admit, there’s nothing more Steve can do for Bucky’s injuries. All Steve can do now is count down the time until they arrive at the hospital. Lean ever so carefully into Bucky’s side. Hope some sort of warmth sinks through the layers of their coats and sweaters to bring colour into Bucky’s pallid skin.

Bucky’s brow creases, and Steve stiffens, afraid that he’s overstepped his bounds yet again.

“I forgot to get you water,” Bucky says miserably.

Steve shakes as he struggles to contain his laughter. Dugan shoots them a quick glance, but doesn’t ask. Bucky sinks even lower into the seat and glares mulishly out the windshield.

After that, it’s relatively quiet in the cab of the pick-up, the tension chased out. Outside, the world is muffled, shapes blurred and sound stolen. The night swallows it all up the same way it swallows up the sight of passing buildings and the empty road behind them. The interior of the pick-up’s cab is heated and made cozier by their combined body heat, and if it weren’t for the imminence of their destination, Steve could fall asleep where he sits.

The temperature out there is bearable, but still pretty cold. Steve’s circulation has never been good, so he’s glad to get his feet off of the icy ground which both threatens to break his neck and give his toes frostbite--

Steve blinks fuzzily into the footwell. His legs are just long enough to plant his feet flat against the rubber mats and he lifts his right foot curiously, distantly noting how weightless the limb feels.

He’s wearing his canvas shoes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments keep the story's momentum going!

Bucky is cold. From the trunk of his body to his starved extremities. The tacky layer of sweat on his skin belies the chill of his flesh. The thick wool of his overcoat only insulates him from the relatively warmer air, but he keeps it wrapped securely around his body as if it’s a binding holding him in one piece. He feels better for it. Feels vulnerable where his grimey skin is exposed and naked. The tips of his frostbitten ears. The blisters on his roughened palms.

He doesn’t know where his gloves are. Probably trodden into the mud by now, left where he dropped them in his haste to bare his hands, pinch the wound closed, stop the spurting blood. The kid died anyway.

He twists his cap in his hands. The soft wool stretches with the motion, durable though stained. The knit catches on his peeling callouses and he can see how the skin pulls and flakes even if he can’t feel it.

When he looks up, the corridor is no shorter. It stretches out, narrow and straight, a single line of flickering bulbs strung down the center. Even late, the hospital bustles with activity, nurses hurrying past with little more than a glance at the soldier standing sentinel in the middle of the corridor.

One kindly nurse takes the time to pause on her errand. She doubles back to Bucky, lays a soothing hand on his elbow, unbothered by the crusty texture of his woolen coat. She is young, like so many others in this building. Her brown curls are carefully coiffed beneath her white cap, but a few strands stick damp and red at her temple, brushed back during a surgery, perhaps.

“Sir?” she asks. Her voice is soft but brisk. “Sir, are you hurt?”

Bucky shakes his head mutely. Parts his chapped lips, but is unable to free his tongue from where it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Another nurse calls from down the corridor, catching the attention of the one holding his elbow. The nurse at his elbow looks regretful. Tired. She has duties to attend to, more pressing matters than a single shell shocked man.

She tells him to take a seat, to return to his quarters for a lie down. He nods in assent, though both know he will do no such thing. For one, there are no seats to take, the corridor already overcrowded with beds and gurneys pushed up against the walls. The hotel was never meant to house the injured, but a field hospital makes do.

Bucky shouldn’t be here, but he has no choice. He was interrupted last time, and the longer he drags this on, the worse it will be.

He watches the nurse march away, the low heels of her shoes clicking rhythmically down the corridor. The click-click fades, and he is left again, alone for all intents and purposes. He sinks back beneath notice, even his unwashed stench is unremarkable in these close-quarters. The air is already thick with the scent of chemicals and putrefying flesh. Infected limbs and the bodies of the freshly dead.

He walks and doesn’t count the white sheets draped benignly over still figures.

Blood is a metallic tang that hangs heavy in the air, but he steps through the veil, left-foot, right-foot. The scent of rot and sickness helps keep the hunger at bay, but it’s been weeks. _Weeks_. And he’s slipping. He knows by the way he glides down the corridor in a dreamlike haze, pausing by the beds of slumbering patients, those recently delivered from the violence of war to the dangers of a different battle.

He doesn’t let himself linger by any bedsides, knowing the temptation will only build if he lets his eye catch the unguarded flutter of a pulse. Instead, he follows the hum of machinery deeper into the building. Past the syncopation of nurses’ heels with the laboured breaths of the wounded. Inhale-exhale, one entity woven together from a patchwork of bandages and prayers. He ignores the thrum of life in favour of the mechanical hum of the refrigeration unit he knows must be stored nearby. He needs the stock within, just one glass jar, just one to tide him over until he’s charged with the task of leading the remnants of his patrol back out into the fight.

It’s easy enough to pinpoint the sound of the refrigeration unit through the walls, but not so easy to navigate through the unfamiliar corridors to reach the correct room. He winds up in yet another repurposed suite, extraneous hotel furniture stacked haphazardly against one wall, hospital cots spaced evenly against the opposite wall.

This room is dark, the lights dimmed to let the patients rest. He walks quietly to the back of the room, careful not to disturb the sleeping occupants of the cots. Pressing his ear against the yellowing wallpaper, he can hear the refrigeration unit buzzing-- can feel the electricity humming-- on the other side, but he doesn’t know how to reach it. The corridor goes no further. Maybe access through service passages.

Bucky turns away from the wall, fingers trailing listlessly over the wallpaper. Only, something catches his hand and pulls him down.

He drops his cap. His knees crack against the wooden floors and the knuckles of his free hand knock painfully against a metal bed frame as he tries to control his fall. He bites his lip to hold in a yelp of pain and nearly draws blood when he sees what’s wrapped around his wrist.

A thickly bandaged hand holds Bucky in a vice-like grip, the ends of the wrappings loosened to reveal raw and blistered fingers.

“Sarge.”

Bucky’s eyes dart up to the speaker, a man on a cot. The man is mostly hidden by a thin blanket, but what isn’t covered by the blanket is wrapped in bandages. His arms, his shoulders, his neck and face. The bleached cloth is dappled with pink. Yellow in some areas leaking pus.

“Sarge,” the man rasps again. His face is almost entirely swathed with bandages, only an empty slit for his mouth. The edges of the bandages near his mouth flutter with his shallow breaths.

“I--” Bucky croaks, parched throat clicking. “Do I know you?”

The man on the cot wheezes with what Bucky realizes is laughter. The sound is painful and reverberates strangely in the man’s chest. “Yeah, Sarge. It’s me. Can’t ya see?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Your face,” Bucky replies hesitantly.

“Yeah. We can’t all be pretty as you, Sarge.” Bucky senses the man’s leer despite the bandages covering the man’s eyes. “But ‘at’s okay. Ya jus’ gotta fix me up.”

“I’ll go get a nurse.” Bucky makes to stand, but the man tugs him back down.

“Hey now. Nurse ain’t gonna do shit. Doc can’t do nothin’ either. Here I was, hoping for a million dollar wound ta send me back home, but I get _this_ instead.” The man wheezes with laughter again, his amusement almost hysterical in its intensity. “Sure I’ll getta go home, but _look at me_ , Sarge. What’m I s’pposed to do like this? I ain’t got no life like _this_.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says again. There’s nothing else he can say.

The man pulls Bucky even closer, until Bucky can’t smell anything but the reek of iodine and cooked flesh. “It’s not fair,” the man whispers. “I don’t deserve this. I did good, didn’t I? I did everythin’ Uncle Sam asked for an’ _more_ , didn’t I, Sarge? Don’t I deserve better, Sarge? You can help me. I know you can help me.”

Bucky tries to pull back, something about the man’s tone skittering the wrong way down his nerves. “I don’t know what’s fair, or what you deserve. Sorry, but I’m not even sure I know you.”

The grip on Bucky’s wrist tightens. Bucky tries to tug free, but the man’s ragged nails hook  into his skin.

“Well I know you,” the man says. “I know you. I know you I knowyouIknow--” Bucky twists his hand sharply, uncaring of the deep gouges the bandaged man’s nails leave behind. The sudden jerk frees Bucky’s hand, but throws Bucky back into another cot, causing the cot to skid noisily over the wooden floor. The occupant of the other cot grumbles in drugged exhaustion, but the complaint doesn’t register in Bucky’s ears over the rising screech of the bandaged man before him. “IKNOWYOUIKNOWYOUIKNOW--”

Bucky can hear the rapid clip of low heels on wooden floors as nurses begin to converge on the room, responding to the man’s howling, the thump of the bed as the man thrashes, tries to claw towards Bucky.

It’s too late to exit via the corridor, the footsteps quickly closing in, so Bucky throws the nearest window open. His head spins as he looks down several stories. He’s shaking with hunger and fatigue. The man’s deranged voice rings in his ears. It’s only when his volume drops suddenly to something inaudible to human ears that Bucky understands what he’s saying, the comprehension more chilling than the sharp winter wind on his face.

“ _I know what you are--_ ”

“--ky? Bucky?”

Bucky jolts and nearly falls out of his uncomfortable plastic seat.

“Woah there, easy, pal.”

Bucky turns his head to find a ruddy face peering down at him. It takes a moment for Bucky to process the face before him, and even longer to pair it with a name.

“Dugan,” Bucky says uncertainly.

“That’s my name.”

“Uh,” Bucky says. He looks to the empty seat on his left, then back to Dugan on his right. He leans forward, elbows on his knees to look past Dugan’s burly shape. Steve is nowhere in sight.

“Yes?” Dugan prompts, looking at Bucky like Bucky might be hopped up on something. Not that Bucky can blame him. Bucky isn’t exactly the poster child for healthy living.

“Where’s Steve?”

Dugan frowns. “He went to find his ma. Maybe get something for that migraine of his. Remember?”

Bucky nods, though he doesn’t actually remember. He doesn’t remember arriving at the hospital, or sitting down in the waiting area of the ER, or being left with Dugan while Steve apparently went off to find his ma. He doesn’t remember anything about Steve getting a migraine. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been waiting. The ER isn’t particularly busy, but Bucky supposes it’s not particularly well staffed either.          

It’s been a long time since he’s been to a hospital. The veneer may have changed, but beneath the symphony of beeping gadgetry and the scent of industrial cleaning products, Bucky can hear the same laboured gasping and smell the same cloying rot as he could over fifty years ago. He knows that the quality of care has improved, that medicine has advanced, and that rates of survival have risen, but even sitting in the waiting area of the ER, Bucky can hear every flatline in the building.

Bucky’s never been in this particular hospital, but he feels like he’s returning to the scene of a crime, anyway. The muffled sobs, the hisses of pain, and the grinding of teeth; the sounds of the deed and the aftermath that follows.

Bucky’s hungry. He’s hungry and he doesn’t want to be here.

Bucky swallows thickly and refuses to let his nostrils flare as a teary woman walks by, bloodied towel pressed to her temple. He compulsively smoothes the creases in his trousers, only to remember he’s wearing jeans-- not trousers-- and his hand has a shard of glass in it.

“Stop that,” Dugan scolds, knocking his shoulder into Bucky’s. Bucky nearly falls onto his injured hand, but manages to brace himself with an elbow against the plastic seat on his left. He glares at Dugan.   

Bucky straightens and lifts his left hand off of his knee. The broad, red smear of his blood is visible despite the dark colour of the denim. The sight only heightens his urge to fuss with his clothing, and it’s an effort to curl his left hand into a docile claw.

Bucky swallows. He’s cold and exposed, even with his hood pulled over his greasy hair. He turns his gaze to the florescent lights above. It hurts his eyes, but he keeps looking until his eyes feel hot. He needs a distraction. Something to keep his mind off the tightness in his throat and the gnawing pain in his gut. Something to keep his mind focused on the present. Lest he start to slip.

“So,” Dugan says. Casually.

Bucky twitches irritably. Lets his eyes slide over to meet Dugan’s narrowed gaze.

“What happened to your hand, anyway?” Dugan asks.

“I dropped a glass.”

“Clumsy of ya.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re Steve’s neighbour?”

“Yup.”

“How long’ve you lived in that place?”

“A while.”

“Mhmm.”

“Yup.”

“Okay, listen here, you weirdo,” Dugan growls, abruptly leaning into Bucky’s space. “There’s no way you’re near our age which makes you a creepy older man who’s got no business hanging around a nice kid like Steve. You stay away from him or I’ll show you why I’ve been state wrestling champion, two years running.”

“And if I were a creepy older man, how’s a threat like that supposed to scare me?” Bucky asks sardonically. “Like your high school glory means a thing in the real world.”

Dugan appraises Bucky disdainfully. “Twig like you? Ain’t no problem, _Buck’o_.”    

“How ‘bout we take it outside, and I show you just how much of a problem I can be, _Dum Dum_ ,” Bucky retorts, feeling his vision tunneling with aggression.

Dugan flinches away, and Bucky mirrors him, falling backwards into the empty seat to his left. Bucky fluidly recovers and pivots to launch himself off of the seat in one smooth motion, his fumble as imperceptible as the shuddering breath he takes once his back is turned to Dugan.

“Hey!” Dugan yelps as Bucky strides away, the barest quaver to his voice. Unsettled by an instinctual fear he’s likely never encountered before. “Hey! Where’re you going?”  

“I’m going to the fucking shitter, ya fuckhead!” Bucky yells over his shoulder, storming past a startled nurse and a couple of appalled by-standers.

The nurse looks like he’s going to berate Bucky for his behaviour, but Bucky’s quick to dart around the corner in the general direction of the washrooms. Of course, Bucky doesn’t actually go to the washroom, too on-edge to cage himself in a room with only one exit. Bucky slips deeper into the hospital, aimless but knowing he needs to separate himself from other people _now_.

So much for distracting himself. Bucky can’t go on like this. He shouldn’t have left the confines of his apartment. Shouldn’t have let himself get talked into this mess by a little firecracker who’s got no sense of self-preservation.

Bucky thought he could do better. He has done better before, gone longer, but it’s been nearly a month. A month of starvation. Deprivation. His tenuous lucidity bought with the sludge of animal blood. But squirrel snacks just can’t cut it, like gulping water to cramp a hollow gut.

Bucky doesn’t know where Alex is. Doesn’t know what Alex is playing at. If this is a punishment or a test. Maybe Alex just plain _forgot_. Bucky doesn’t know what reason would sting most. Whatever the case, Bucky can’t wait around for a second longer, not now that he’s been riled up by yet another punk.

Steve sure knows how to pick ‘em, Bucky thinks as he rips the shard of glass out of his hand. He tosses the piece in a trashcan as he passes it, and finally slips his left arm through the sleeve of his coat, uncaring of the blood he smears all over the lining.

So, back to robbing blood banks.

While better stocked now than in the past, they’re also better monitored, and Bucky is wary of raising any strange flags. Still, the alternative is even less appealing, and Bucky’s sure the hospital staff would rather have a mysterious blood shortage than a fresh corpse on the linoleum.

Bucky can practically feel his pupils contracting, and his gums itch where his incisors long to extend. Bucky’s senses are particularly heightened when he’s in such a state, but it’s not helpful in a crowded environment. He imagines it’s probably still useful in the countryside where prey is sparse and sound is a dead giveaway of hiding places. In modern urban environments, however, It’s over stimulating. There are too many sounds, too many electronics, too many living bodies, too many incessantly moving susurrations all layered together. It’s exhausting enough to sift through and process when he’s in his right mind. Starved and desperate, Bucky’s focus skips from sound to sound, attracted by whatever’s loudest, most abrupt, or closest. Then there’s Steve.

Steve’s stuttered breathing trumpets in Bucky’s ear, like Steve is right next to Bucky rather than two floors away. It shouldn’t be possible. Bucky has amazing hearing, but he’s never been able to pick out the fine detail. Breathing doesn’t really produce unique or attention-grabbing noises, so he can’t know that this particular gasp belongs to Steve. But he does.

Bucky turns on his heel and slams through the doors to the nearest stairwell. Luckily for him, it’s not an emergency exit, so he doesn’t accidentally trigger any alarms. Bucky doesn’t bother with climbing the stairs, even though they’re empty of traffic. He keeps his injured hand tucked against his stomach as he hops onto the spiraling railing in the center of the stairwell and leaps in increments from landing to landing. Despite his handicap, it’s quick work to scale the two floors separating him from the panicked breathing of his target.

Bucky uses his right hand to swing himself over the banister for the fourth floor. His toes touch down on the floor of the landing at the same time the door to the stairwell bangs open, nearly knocking Bucky back to the ground floor. Bucky presses his back into the banister to avoid getting concussed by the heavy metal door, and meets Steve’s eyes through the small rectangular window in the door.

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims as the door closes behind him. Bucky is already cataloguing possible causes for Steve’s troubled breathing. It’s not hard to pinpoint the cause.

“What the fuck is _that?_ ” Bucky doesn’t bother gesturing to the girl slumped into Steve’s shoulder.

“I can explain,” Steve says seriously, like there can possibly be a good explanation for toting around a semi-conscious girl in a hospital gown when Steve is supposed to be finding his ma to help with Bucky’s hand and Steve’s apparent migraine. Which is conveniently gone, if Steve’s bright eyes are any indication. “I can totally explain. Just-- later. Now help me carry her.”

“Help you carry-- _Steve_.” A vein in Bucky’s eyelid pulses with stress. But his appetite is gone now, so there’s that.

“C’mon, Buck. Freak out later. We gotta go,” Steve says.

“Yeah, hurry up.” Bucky’s attention jerks from Steve’s earnest blue eyes to the beady green-eyed gaze of the girl leaned against Steve. She’s a little taller than Steve. Older too, though Bucky can’t be sure of her age with the way her red hair hangs wild in her face. Despite her infirmity and state of undress, she has the audacity to snap her fingers in Bucky’s face. “Pick me up. Chop, chop. Let’s go.”

Bucky picks her up, but only because it looks like Steve’s knees are about to give under the strain. Unfortunately, the girl doesn’t even yelp from being suddenly swept into his arms. She takes it as her due, perching comfortably in his bridal carry even as Steve squawks something about chivalry and duty, probably.

Bucky doesn’t have the patience to listen. “Shaddup. If we’re doing something stupid, we’d best do it stupidly well. Now where’s the exit?”

Steve glowers at Bucky, but it seems he’s capable of strategic thought because he directs Bucky to a nearby exit that’s quiet and poorly monitored. Steve himself runs off to fetch Dugan. The plan is to get Dugan to pull his truck around to pick up Bucky and the girl. It’s a good idea, but Bucky shudders to think of what Steve’s original plan must’ve been when Bucky and Dugan weren’t readily available.

It takes a few minutes for Dugan’s junker to pull into the alley Bucky waits in. It’s enough time to study the girl in his arms. She seems to drift in and out of consciousness, her head nodding against her chest and the frizzy strands of her hair torturously scratching Bucky’s nose. She looks like a doll. Fine-featured and long-lashed. Her hair is naturally, vibrantly red, and she feels soft and warm in his arms, shapely legs folded demurely over his elbow and willowy arms wormed under Bucky’s coat seeking warmth. The only signs of her humanity are the red pressure marks across her porcelain skin, evidence of bindings on her delicate ankles and a tight mask muzzling the bottom of her face. 

Steve is leaning out of the open passenger door when Dugan’s truck finally pulls up, reaching out for Bucky and the girl before the vehicle has even come to a complete stop.

“C’mon, they’ll be noticing she’s gone any moment now,” Steve urges. He makes grabby hands at Bucky as if he expects Bucky to transfer the girl’s weight into his arms.

Bucky shoulders Steve’s outstretched arms out of his way and hip-checks Steve across the bench seat so he can slide into the cab of the truck, keeping the girl cradled firmly in his own arms.

Dugan looks about as frazzled as Bucky initially felt, but he hits the gas when the girl’s eyes snap open and she barks, “Drive!”

No one speaks again until Dugan parks his truck outside of Bucky and Steve’s housing complex. The ticking of the cooling engine only heightens the thick tension stretched between the occupants of the truck, though the girl seems comfortable enough on Bucky’s lap, resting her head on the meat of Bucky’s shoulder.   

Steve is the one to break the silence. “Bucky,” he begins.

“Way ahead of you,” Bucky sighs. He flings the truck door open and slides out. “But I’m out of food and, honestly, I only have one set of clothes an’ I’m wearing them, so you’d better provide on that end. This ain’t even my-- pet project.”

The way Steve beams at Bucky almost makes the whole mess seem acceptable. But Bucky’s reality is a little less forgiving than others’, and the logistics are just impossible. Steve doesn’t know just how unsuitable Bucky’s residence is for visitors, let alone guests. How unsuitable _Bucky_ is for guests. What’s Bucky to do, though, when Steve looks so goddamned grateful, when Steve breathes out, “Thanks,” with literally all the air in his lungs, like Bucky’s offering _Steve_ sanctuary, and not some strange girl.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” Bucky says instead of acknowledging Steve’s gratitude. There’s plenty of time for all of them to regret Bucky’s hospitality.

Steve nods, unaware of the eruption building behind him in the form of Dugan, face boiling with colour and more than a few words he’ll be wanting to have with Steve.

Bucky doesn’t bother eavesdropping on Dugan laying into Steve. He has enough on his mind and in his arms. He’s been committed to this insanity since Steve asked Bucky to help him. In truth, he’s been committed since Steve’s punk-ass decided it was a good idea to talk to the weirdo on the playground. Avoidance is no longer an option, if it ever was. Bucky is bound to Steve, his body attuned to Steve’s frailty, drawn against any better judgement.

But, Bucky would probably still choose to be near Steve. It’s a small thought. Barely formed. Bucky crushes it down.

Any hope of mitigating the inevitable disaster with Alex is long gone, so Bucky isn’t subtle about his return to unit 8. He throws the door open, for once unfazed by the bug he knows is planted by the door. Bucky intends to barge right inside, but backtracks to scrape the bug off of the doorhinge. He grinds the tiny device under his boot. There’d been a time when Bucky wanted to discreetly disable or overwrite the surveillance, but the need for immediate privacy supersedes the far off consequences.

Bucky kicks off his boots, letting them thud-thud against the baseboards. The living room lamp and the light in the kitchen are still on. He dumps the girl in the living room armchair and hears a satisfying _oof_ before he proceeds to sweep the unit for the other bugs tracking the opening and closing of windows and doors, disabling each with the bottom of his foot and kicking the remains into the shadowy corners for later disposal.

Likely, Alex already knows that Steve visited, and that Bucky left the unit despite his promises not to. Fortunately, Alex is a paranoid bastard, and the surveillance doesn’t record audio or visual. This is more for the security of Alex’s identity than Bucky’s, but it works in Bucky’s favour, mostly monitoring movement and life signs.

When the last bug is dealt with, Bucky returns to the living room and almost doesn’t notice anything amiss, as accustomed to darkness as he is.

“Give me your money,” the girl says from her seat in the armchair. The floor lamp is switched off, leaving only the dim kitchen light to illuminate the sparsely furnished room.

Bucky stands at the mouth of the hallway and regards her curiously as she pushes herself out of the armchair. She can barely stand and her dependence on upright structures isn’t discreet with the way she braces herself against the high back of the armchair. Her head lolls a bit, long red hair falling unchecked into her face. “Give me your money,” the girl repeats, enunciating carefully, maintaining eye contact with Bucky. “And get me some clothes.”

“I wasn’t joking about only having the clothes on my back,” Bucky replies.

“That’s gross,” she says flatly. “Your hoodie, then. Give me your hoodie. Get all the cash you have and give it to me. Credit cards and cheques too, if you’ve got them. Then you’re going to carry me out of here.”

The girl is curiously confident about her demands being met. Her hands are empty. She’s unarmed and weak, but blinks expectantly at Bucky. She straightens and crosses her arms over her chest in a futile attempt to keep warm. There are red pressure marks on her wrists to match those on her ankles and face.

Bucky shrugs his coat off and lets it fall to the floor. He peels off his hoodie, leaving his chest bare. His t-shirt is soaking in a bucket along with his only other set of clothes. He got a little sloppy with the squirrels.  

The girl raises one dainty eyebrow. “Nice,” she says, taking in Bucky’s physique through her peripheral vision. She doesn’t break eye contact with Bucky. “You’ll do.”

Bucky smoothes out the fabric of the hoodie with his left hand, staining yet another garment with blood. He considers the evidence carefully.

Bucky tosses the hoodie at the girl, then launches himself across the room and tackles her to the ground.

She lands hard under his weight, but instantly rolls them despite being caught off guard, using the momentum of Bucky’s tackle to flip their positions. She scrabbles to pin Bucky, but Bucky is larger, stronger, and--

“ _I know what you are_ ,” Bucky growls.

She freezes, staring down at Bucky. There’s abject fear, then recognition, then-- strangely-- something like elation. She melts into Bucky. Her hair gets in his mouth and her elbows briefly jab into his sides. Her arms slacken to curl around him in an embrace, heedless of the violence still coiled in Bucky’s muscles, limbs poised to snap her bones.

“I know what you are,” she echoes Bucky.

When Bucky’s hand wraps around the back of her neck, it is an anchoring weight that hides her vulnerable nape from the dark.

 


End file.
